30 October 2011

Sweet Futility

How many mornings 
does one wake up in a meadow?
I was there.
Skirting thistles.
In the morning.
in the hour of the blue-black bruise dome
I had unzipped my door
avoided tripping outright into the wet grass.  
I’d glanced up then.
No sky.
Just a blank, awfully close to my nose.
And not a clean slate either.  A poorly erased one.  Smudged.
Not star-salted.
Thick pudding of night cloud touching my hair and worrying my eyes.
when Aurora had carelessly stalked through her bedroom sky-door
that’s where I was.
And I was in the light.
Picking my way through thistles far and wide.
In the company of slugs finishing their night salads.
Arguing with the late summer sun: O beloved orb, just don’t go.  
(I know you will.)
(No matter what I say.)
One arm went up as I turned my feet in the sticky web of my 
argument with the sun dance.
The hand on the end of the arm travelled higher.
It passed beyond the tops of a row of quiet trees 
keeping sunrise from waking more tent sleepers.
And as the hand passed its little zenith
it uncovered fire.
A fire content to contain itself
in a droplet of night air that got too cool and heavy 
to lift itself back up.
The whole sun 
in fact.
The light of this world.
Lazing in a drop of dew.
burning in water 
hanging in air.
The chosen droplet broadcast its orange speech at top volume
touching everything to its west
with its eloquence and its beautiful goodbye.
The best thing it ever had to say.
In the end
of course
the sun did climb its daily steps.
And it made a little dewfire irrelevant 
with its meadow-baking statements. 
Crickets sunbathed between hay stalks.
Dragonflies cruised the sky party
clacking their wings.
Sounding the bells
of the end
of every futile argument ever made.

6 October 2011


seeing you turns my chest into a flower garden
pink orange white red and yellow begin to buzz
they fly in small silly hardworking circles
restless under my chin

seeking the colours you flash

the colours you snap without noticing
in your perfect rhythm
slow and mellow
half beat behind the rush

seeking and seeing this
the colours of my breath all open
open so fast

my chest blooms 
as if the sight of this
is a rare chance to turn its inside out 
and live
the chest opening its quick petal wings
like left and right hands unfolding from each other
to hold the new warmth 
of a gentle, traveling sun
so golden clear
is this sight
no less sweet than a jar of honey 
left to glow on a bright windowsill