of ever-growth and always-change
married to shadow music and feather sky
by a fine-filmed pastor of sunrise
morning-moves act as guide and angry compass
tea-burnt and beauty believed
by every sacrosanct ripple-day
mind-lair
everywhere ordinary
breath-bane and
mirror time
existence
.
.
the importance of numbers is self-prescribed
time
weight
date
expiration
days add up to life
lives add up to minutes
the flower
knows
when to bloom
.
.
.
.
It felt like a long ago dream,
that moment in the sun when everything changed.
She remembered the crow cawing loudly overhead, a warning.
She remembered the smell of smoke and the neighbor’s cries,
the damp earth beneath her back,
soaking up the sweat that ran from her body.
Forever stretched all the way up,
touching the cloud of regrettable sky.
She closed her eyes and saw red.
She opened them and saw nothing.
Silence was everywhere in the air around her,
and she held still, so still, trying to listen.
Beside her, a green shoot pushed up through the earth,
a feather tickle to the back of a dark-spotted hand.
A smile flew fast from her mouth, a strong white swift,
and carried old laughter away on the breeze.
The fleeting shadow of yesterday crossed her face,
just once.
And tomorrow became eternity’s muse,
dancing softly and praying for rain.
shadow shard and hollow reflection
dripping sweet song pattern and
endless playback
locked in a house of mirrors
where the laughter
bouncing
from room to room
belongs to no one
and dawn reveals the skeleton
inside the jar of syrup
all the pieces are there
and you can spend three months
striving to fit them back together
or you can leave them
dancing in the light of day
as long as you remember
to watch your step each night
because fool’s gold
puddles in your footprints
leading the way
to the door
listen
some days, that’s all i want
to say
listen
or show me
what’s in your
heart
beneath the stone
you’ve left unturned
tell me
how it feels
to be the seventh billion
snowflake
falling gently from a sky
made grey with uniquity
holding on
until you melt
raging into rivers
groaning with overflow
howling
losing voice and veracity
whisper-stamped and
season-dated
by a mouth
that’s always
open
.
listen
.
I believe in spring flowers on the kitchen table.
I believe the moon knows all the world’s secrets,
and if you listen, she’ll whisper to you in your sleep.
I believe cardinals were sent to keep color alive during winter.
I believe ghosts are the physical manifestation of hope.
I believe gardens are the very same thing.
I believe there are 56 days in February,
but every calendar is missing a page.
I believe mountains are the keeper of silence.
I believe there are 9,837 different kinds of love,
each one a leaf on the deciduous tree of life.
I believe music is the wind, whispering through those leaves.
I believe in messes, beautiful, beautiful messes.
I believe snowflakes are the only form of perfection.
I believe light makes us grow, but darkness keeps us sane.
I believe forests remember
every person they’ve ever encountered.
I believe words are the oldest religion.
I believe north is the strongest direction.
I believe we are all in this together,
most especially those who stand alone.
I believe birds were the world’s first poets.
I believe in spring.
.
.
we do this dance round the kitchen
bouncing off each other like pinballs in a space too small
for one communicating in a language evolved from grunts
and sighs and a pat on the leg that means: excuse me
our life grows from this place and there are always flowers
purchased with food because they offer the same slow
sustenance and this one tiny window does not
reveal as much as it keeps the light out behind
curtain wall curtain and there’s no room for waltzing
but we make do and break our bread in the silence
that falls between now and forever even though
you never like what i cook and i never eat what i
like we never go hungry or further than the living
room with its fire our food a dark chocolate finale
as dishes pile up in the corner crooning leftover notes
of consumption and waiting to be washed while we
do this dance round the kitchen
.
.
.
.
is always temporary
like the darkness
you’ve learned
to forgive
dawn is never your saviour
but almost enough
to make you
believe
clean is a fresh white cover
despite the mud
crawling through
what lies beneath
a map of every step
you’ve ever taken
you could be followed
you cannot wash yourself in crystal
you never were pure
this is the way you will melt
a pool of poison
sifting merriment
from bones
this soil contains us
eternity’s sacred measure
gravity’s compression
gleaning diamonds
to atone
.
.
.
.
i watch the sound of you
make shapes in the enemy of sky
and you shift change until I lose
the voice behind your words
this earth is cold and grey
and i stand motionless
as you scream
your quavering dance
through a wind
filled with knives and
stinging nettles
your flight is the map
of all things living
and i raise my arms
briefly
thinking perhaps i could
cut in
learn to waltz
or at least
follow
but I am no angel and
you have black wings
i have fingers and toes
and this listening heart
and we both know
this is always and never
even as you land
on the corner of my shadow
pecking code and
marking melodies
neither one of us
is free
in the hush
in the quiet
under breath
beneath the bridge
i never cross
never burn
forest blaze
dancing flame
pirouette
in deep dark shadow
spin spin
never stop
my heart
is your whisper
my voice
is your silence
my music
your zephyr
i am quiet
always quiet
winding through
your ancient labyrinth
never lost
never sorry
for your imprint
on my skin
.
.
