Wednesday, November 13, 2013



Dark shedding. Translucent shadows of the leaves
on a lake without a name you once made famous for nothing
because you saw it dance in your awareness of enough
and touched it with your eyes like a secret that was meant
to be kept like the silence in the roots of the bracken.

Regrets? What was there to cry about that didn’t bloom
in retrospect? Did you miss the moon? Did you run
to the window in time? Have you seen it yet
through the rain and the smoke? Do you see a woman
or do you see a ghost in the garden that reminds you
of someone you knew when were young among
the sunflowers you grew? And the moon and the locust tree
you hung from like someone pendulous and blue
as time on the air of the unweaving hills? Is that
still true as a road that goes nowhere without you
like the sumac in the fall when it fails? Do the gates
still open as if they recognized you by the grace
and the colour of the bouquets you made of your skelton keys?

Gardens of scars in your eyes. Did you leave the stars
to the sage when you wept like smoke at the feet
of everything it didn’t say but you could foretell
by the silence that befell you before and after that you
heard it anyway like the flight of a homing heron
to the shrines of its sacred syllable in the heart of time,
in the eye of the light, in the mouth of the wind,
in the crowns of the fire, in the flowers weeping
on the dark waters within as if you’d been their only friend
to understand their solitude as a gift from their wayward ends?


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