SHADES
∴
the shades have been drawn
yea, even unto myself,
that we may sleep
and keep still
the motion
of forward thoughts.
it is not the time.
it is not the time.
so we strangers
fill the chambers
like ghosts
in a waiting room;
exchanging glances
and sorting through
empty seconds
like old photos of people we’ve never met,
precious
and gone
unknown.
∴
THINGS THAT SLEEP
.
look
how still the snow lies on the branch
in the held, white breath
of soft fog.
look
how it outlines the memory
of things that sleep
sleep
but live still.
…
..
.
TO FORCE A BLOOM
.
to force a bloom
is to falsify
the natural expansion
of our arms;
to open and hold
with weak petals
the burdens of days
we were not meant to live.
but to wait
wait
for incubation’s
promised plume –
pained and pressed
behind the bud –
o then
is our reward.
full of leaf, fragrance, and color
we shall come
temporarily born
and flaming.
…
..
.
GRIP
.
the hardest grip
we will ever
strain to hold
is upon that
which was never
ours to keep.
…
..
.
STUMBLE
.
it may be better,
i think,
to stumble in the darkness
than to walk
by artificial light.
suns rise.
moons glow.
stars’ distant fires burn.
even the very insects
illuminate,
that we might know…
that we might see
our way.
…
..
.
.
TO MY RIGHT
come.
sit beside me.
i have cleared a space
here
to my right
and there is a crackle of hearth
before us.
let us toss there,
into the gentle dance,
the masks on sticks
that fill our hands,
occupy our fingers
with constant positioning,
and keep us looking through
card board cut-out holes,
like children
in too-tight forts,
hunkered in flimsy boxes
to feel safe.
then,
in the glow of small, consuming flame,
who eats to ash
the painted masks,
i will look on you
and you on me
and feel safer
than in any fort before.
…
..
.
…
VELOCITY
i have found
fear
to be the mightiest
dam of words.
and if anger be the spillway,
it forms a bursted flood
that drowns the tallest reed,
and lost by lost velocity
goes tender, planted seed.
…
..
.
WONDERLANDS
∴
do not be dismayed
by the brown of the earth
that roads and curls in stoney swirls,
thinking only of want for snow.
it is hard not to miss magic
when everything
has become so very real.
if i could dream,
i would take my labors
like a spade upon my shoulder
and dig down
in the dirt
until i found
a white blanket
of wonderlands,
and lay it out
over this place,
over this mind,
over this heart,
and prove
that what we cannot see
is still there
and just slightly covered
by a forgetful
and disguising ground.
∴
THE LIST
∴
i had a list
of all the wrongs
that had ever been done to me.
i added to it daily.
i wrote on every clean space there was.
it was such a big list
i didn’t even know it was there.
it was the wallpaper
that draped the walls
that made the room
i lived in.
i made matching drapes
so it was homey.
i burned incense therein,
to try and make it holy.
i’m not sure how it started;
whether there was a chipped piece
of that paper
that i picked
and couldn’t stop,
or if perhaps,
when moving some large piece
of mental furniture, –
those fixtures we frequently sit upon
are rarely question their comfort, location, or age –
i banged into the wall
hard enough
to break off a bit
of that plastered seal,
and the lines
of the pages
of the paper
on the wall –
that long, long list –
that wrapper of right worlds –
began to peel.
in thin layers,
crisp as an onion skin,
letters dropped from words
like dead-dried warts
from a softer sole
and i could walk again,
without their customed limp.
i walked to every wall
and peeled,
and stripped,
and washed,
and ripped,
and reassembled the words upon those walls to read:
i forgive.
i forgive.
i forgive.
and then i saw,
no walls at all.
i had papered
the very air about me.
∴
SNOW
∴
snow
does not work
like rain.
it’s made of the same stuff,
to be sure,
but where rain drives,
snow dances.
where rain falls,
snow floats,
and plays on the current
in mischievous dodgings
and happy bursts
until finally,
it lands,
rests,
and stays.
my love,
will you play?
∴
