sanctity
(sanity)
holding on
to:
your hand
your love
your whisper of hope
possibility
tiny miracles
tomorrow
grey clouds
sunshine
orion high
in night’s dark sky
a robin
builds a nest
in the tree
outside my window
she is my
hero
.
. . . . .
.
grief
that instant
each morning
just as you
open
didn’t really
sleep well
eyes
that instant
each morning
before
you remember
.
that is the
moment
i cling to
.
. . . . .
.
perhaps in a book
or under a rock in a garden
dotted with daffodil
or a path down the side
of a long empty road
dancing sideways and laughing
in that way no one ever
wants to hear
there’s always folding laundry
into perfect measured
squares
or washing dishing
slowly
just as the sun
begins to settle
there are six snowdrops
by the back door
nine crocus
ten thousand leaves
(i counted)
but at night
in a room
filled with ghosts and
fraught silence
there is no way around
this bitter elephant
crushing my chest
and building a home
in the corners
of verity
i see you
eating darkness
feeding fear
and ancient bear
i see you bleeding tears
of collective memory
and you
keep visiting
my dreams
as if
there is something
left
to say
i let the dog out
and the moon was singing
down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody
polaris twinkled
guiding each of us
home
.
.
.
and the minutes
turn back into hours
resting lazily
on firmaments
of fiction
you with
your back turned
away
from the light
and this corner
always lurking
never parried
a universe
in small spaces
revealing worlds
or open secrets
building stories
one by one
toppling towers
picking up pieces
again and again
learning you
in new lessons
leaving scars
mixed with
salt
and midnight
smiles
.
.
.
because what choice do we have
and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat
and
some days
it’s fair to say
i’m tired.
part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young
and we’re all just
spinning
waiting
acting
watching
fighting
for
another
day
to stand
or soar
or sit with it all
once more
.
.
.
I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.
Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.
I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.
There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.
I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.
I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.
Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.
I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.
This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.
It doesn’t matter.
Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.
No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.
I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.
I trip over everything anyway.
It’s winter and I miss the sky.
The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.
On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.
.
.
.
