Tuesday, July 03, 2012

Untitled Poem

Speak deeply of all you know,
all that circles your heart,
that fine feeling
of breeze drying
the sweat you
earned while crying
out to a silent
universe, "Where
have my Gods
and Goddesses gone?"
While the wheel of lives past
turns, the vaguely
endless chain of being,
speak of the reach down
for that clear, round
something you picked
up once in the sand
when you were only
eight, and the life
you held right then
was cupped in your hand,
a stone of great worth
you would never consider
casting away. Speak
deeply of that time
you found the perfect
apple.  There it lay,
on the ground, of all places,
fallen from the ancient tree
that told you, "Eat, for it
is good." And you did,
and it was good, and it was
Sunday, so you had time
to sit on the thick roots,
lean against that cool trunk,
get your pants dirty, moisture
from the morning seeping
through denim and white
cotton, nothing wrong,
nothing right, just
sweet juice running
down your chin. Yes,
speak clearly of the afternoon
you woke up on that hill,
eyes opened by the sun,
a moment of forgetting
where you were or why
it even mattered, or how
long you'd been sleeping
or if, in your nap, you'd
actually heard the birds
acting like they were music,
or if the warm patch of grass
beneath you felt softer now
that it had cradled your
body, or if your mother
missed you, because you
knew she'd come looking,
see you peaceful, sigh in relief,
take you in her arms and ask you
what you saw in the clouds.
 
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