∴

tis a dangerous thing:

to be right.

it would occupy with pride

the house where love ’d reside.

so, right

and lonely be

or real

and known by me;

how will you go,

my love?

∴

∴

off we march
and into the woods –

us fine lumber jacks
and janes –

with our lanterns and saws
and just enough bravery
to stay the essential step
ahead of fear.

our winches for to pull,
our wedges so to hold,
and weighted, watchful, warning eyes
to look upon the trail.

it is good to clear the path.

to make a way in this wild,
and move on,

to move on…

it is rewarding
and backbreaking work.

but to have kind company
thereon,
and a little music sung,

well,
may we then,
all rest in peace.

∴

∴

the work of my hands
does achingly go
as i carry the work of my heart
in tow.

’tis a chiseled piece –
the marble of man –
that crumbles
in misshapen splint,

but beneath
and under
the laborer’s hand,
who works not boastful
nor reticent,

comes strong and pristine
that work of me,
that is the labor of love,

and without,
i buried
and shapeless be;
this marble
that i am made of.

∴

∴

this little
belong-less thing,
who went traipsing
through mist and mire,

who homed in the avalanche of other,
and burrowed
in hovels of fire,

did one day emerge
and lived
like a song on the sea.

there is no home
where i belong
but the sacred home
inside of me.

∴

∴

where i once was brave,
it cost me all i had.

there,
in that sacred Trasna,
i knew the fool in me
and the lover, too,

and i let her be.

i let her be.

for she was also she
who knew who made her,
and who loved
without owning,
and who prayed
without cowering,
and who knew
without doubting,
and who slept

protected
and serene.

crossing places,
perpendicular paths,
are not as easy as they seem,

it seems.

what cargo am i meant to carry
and with what strength do i go?

no more questions, now.

set it down.

set it down.

your load is 
love that bears it for you.

your path is unpaved
but richly sown.

if you would but step

step 

step into the place

where once you were brave.

∴

∴

the cost of gold stars
can be deadly  –

the atmosphere of self
can be

either cloaked in décor
and consistent constellations,

or stripped,
and real,
and gorgeous like a nebula,
soft and daunting,
and ever moving,
over ages.

the cost of gold stars
is to give up the galaxy
in exchange
for approval.

the words,

“yes.

you

belong.”

do not make the seas
attempt to be trees,

nor the north star to jump from its seat
and join Andromeda’s band.

no creature does this but man.

how far
through the heavens we roam,
seeking belong-able home,

but here,

here,

here,

and always

was it given,

from even before

our coming.

these gold stars –
so very bright –
would cost us all
and bind our sight.

∴

∴

it is never a surprise to me,

how much love

can affect

a person,

or situation,

or problem,

or question.

the only mystery

is why

it is used

so

little.

∴

∴

the summer was never mine.

not in its heat
that my flesh sweat in,

nor under its sun
that fed all i had planted,

and brought freckles
out upon my cheeks.

it was never mine
when i dug shallow holes
in its wormed, black dirt

and seeded
all my dreams
and moon flowers.

it was not mine
when i sought the shade
and begged the bees to share space
and not to sting.

it was not mine
when i hid from its humid wrath
and cowered in cool corners
that it might pass me by.

it was not mine
when it began to turn
and call to her solstice
of consummation.

the summer was never mine.

she was love,
that was full
of hot and rain,
and growth and pain,
and wind that woke you,
and thunder that shook you
with its might.

she was lesson
and season
and passing.

she was glad to give herself to you
in all her fragrant blooms,
in all her colors,
and unhidden skies,

but she was never to be kept
that long.

not longer than her nature could allow.

now i hold to these vines
like memory
that will brown and brittle in time,
with gratitude
and bittersweet peace,

for the summer was never mine.

∴

∴

i am not an end
to be achieved

nor am i either
a solution.

so why
should i look
thusly

in you?

no,

it is a dance;

to which we do not set the tune,
nor the rhythm of the drum,
nor the timber of the voice.

we only move

and move,

sometimes together,
sometimes alone,
across this marbled court.

at times in unison,
as if we knew the steps to take,

at times in disaccord
and bumping.

if there was no end –

not to us
nor the music –

would we move less franticly
and with greater precision?

i wonder.

i wonder if we did not ceaselessly
dread the end of tunes,
or speed them through
to be done,

would the song
we all must move to
be more sweetly sung.

∴