the power of lost
possibility
armored over and
bitter coated
speckle-pretty and
color faded
trapped
in time’s musty
closet
or is it hope
redefined
pale protection
roundly painted
and preserved
in smooth treasure box
waiting
for polish and
jeweled key
to crack wide open
The things I’ve forgotten, the messes I’ve made,
the dried-up, brittle-boned detritus of survival.
Perhaps I left it out as a reminder.
A forecast. A prediction.
Or a testament to who I really am,
beneath the soil of wasted hour and wanted nutrient.
Root-bound. Buried.
Parched or drowning, depending on the weather.
Somehow, even so, I will bloom.
.
.
.
the moon kept me awake last night
or perhaps it was the clock-tampering
or the book i couldn’t put down
outside my window
shadows of branch and ice
looked enough like a forest
to quieten my mind
and i wandered
through fields of forced memory
wildflower whispers telling stories
long ago named forgotten
in the silence never silent
i listened to the music of this house
a symphony of survival and
companion
keeping time with tapping toe
and misplaced sigh
tracking half a century of hours
offered and removed
buried warm beneath a quilt
stitched pretty by restless fingers
tracing pattern and loss
joy and forgiveness
worn thin at the edges
by sandpaper hands and
the scrabbling ghost tempo
of tender perennial continuance
.
.
.
years ago
i planted two poplar trees
side by side
out front
in the corner of the yard
and one grew taller than the other
larger
thicker
stronger
and i feel like that’s probably
a metaphor for something
or at least it should be
but all i see are trees
and words about trees
stamped across the sky
in a tangle
of branches
all the meaning i prescribe
comes from within
me
or the trees
and what i choose to name
the one on the left
my cat
can zoom straight up the trunk
leaving scratches
and cheshire grin
in a weathered trunk
time map
but i like to sit
beneath the canopy
and listen
to stories
told by dancing
flicker leaves
in the shade
of yesterday’s
summer
.
.
.
it was your dream and it shouldn’t
have been in my head but there it was
all memory and miniseries
claiming sleep in a gold rush
of measure
the audience laughed when i landed
and i thought perhaps i was dead
but you took my hand and lifted
til i stood three feet taller
than the mountain you sang
and could see each grey hair
on your head
in the hallway air-brushed footsteps
creaked out their endless
time-frame pattern
step here miss there hush now
tiptoe past the door of dragon
and the wind came howling
through the crack
in my window glass scar
left behind on a night when i dreamt
of forgetting and clambered to follow
the pale scratched trail
of prints in the snow beneath me
.
.
.
those were the words you left on the counter
next to the cat food and two bananas gone too far ripe
the kind just waiting for someone to make an effort
but that takes foresight and a dash of clarity and instead
you wrote a sentence on a red-stained slip of paper
more resignation than wish
or at least
acceptance
already i know what my answer will be
but i like the look of empty space
the box of possibility left unlined
in the corner of a kitchen meant for tea
and forgotten pots boiling over
in the corner i write corrosion
in pencil small enough
to be practically invisible
just before i flip the page to map out another list
half-filled with crisp greens and purple edges
in the shapes we’ll throw away
and here i sit, waiting for something i’ll never have and
my mind keeps screaming about wasted time
and the words are all stacked in the corner
neat as a pile of laundry
and my heart is always racing
even though
there’s no time to begin
four walls and one window and i am cold
but never frozen and two crows just flew by
to remind me of balance
as the sun pokes it way through a cross hatched horizon
painting colors with a brush of no hurry
spinning yarn for another day’s sweater
i found an arrow on the floor
three days ago
and just left it there
pointing southwest
it didn’t seem to be meant
for me
.
.
.
they say lightning never strikes the same place twice
but what if white light wakes you up every morning
and sometimes it thunders in the dead cave of winter
but the moon
rises up through the trees
even when frozen
and silt settles on everything
after a flood
concealing what lies
beneath a smooth surface
and magic makes no sense
but neither does reality
the miracle is that any tree survives
holding out bare branches
in forever expectation
of life going on
just the way it does
even uprooted
even split wide open
even silenced by
a lack
of wind
.
.
.
it all hangs in the balance
of what we’re never quite sure
and color leaks
through everything
touching edges
still hoping
for the grey of silence
heartache rolls round
in great waves of destruction
i bleed
you bleed
we all bleed
and you can’t staunch the flow
of life
with an easy off bandage
any more
than you can breathe
when the air
fills with constants
this chair
that tree
a quick flash of smile
memories are never
sincere
nostalgia
always wears
the wrong dress
for the occasion
but underneath
the pulsing river
flows on
the currency of friction
driving us
forward
.
.
.
some days you have to cut off a limb
just to force new growth
prune out the broken bits and
wait for them to form fresh skin
cover old wounds
and choose the right spot
for opening veins
none of it makes you less whole
less beautiful
less valuable
your resilience is your strength
gathering force from every
misstep
mistook
wear your scars like a badge
of adornment
reach for the sky
with wide open arms
the stars will fall into
your humble embrace
and you will refuse
to hold them
their light on your skin
is always
enough
and release is the salve
of time’s flight
.
.
.
