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if you have been missing for thirty years you
might remember who you are sometimes it takes that long of a journey outside of ourselves, into the dusk or mountains beyond the fences of our hearts. a family of bears takes us in. there is a wobbly ladder to the sky and we climb it. we find a strange bouquet in another country, pack it into the suitcase of our chest for later. the bears teach us how to endure the cold season, hold our sorrow for spring. the sky-ladder will break behind us-- but to touch the blue, blue sky and stare down on the roof of our head. just once is a kind of forgiveness. what we receive from passing through others who are not like us deepens our gaze. the thought other fills us with our own other. the trick is to find the perfect match that will burn down our perfect home. all of the real lessons arrive out of getting lost. the cows move across the fields
without thinking, buoyed by the hymn of the long grass. they seem to take no steps but get to where they are going nowhere, everywhere. it's true: the grass invented them to make itself more important. what we think is in charge isn't. to simply think control means not in control. something moves us, not-us lifting each of our legs. the sun looks on. to go to the ledge, high up
no apology for disappearing gnarled trees sit close to me I put my arm around one love, I am your friend here where everything else is small and the wind says it's okay. see, its about returning to the source. nights so warm
the fireflies stick to the air. watermelon, as a metaphor for any of it. I remember walking up an estuary in the moonlight fish bouncing off my chest like bullets. on such a night one could lie down upon this earth with just a sliver of sadness, not the whole pie. I would not give up the green grass for anything; it would be better to die than not have it. who among us has not felt the same about a lover? I never learned the names of the birds but there is still time. summer is made of time. the kisses stay in your mouth even after you're done kissing them. when the beach rose takes over the night air none of us will behave responsibly. so be it, if the molecules of my being last until then. I will be finished with all this house cleaning, this waiting for the postman. the house will have burned down. the postman gone fishing. I remind myself that what I think matters doesn't. I won't speculate on the shape of the mouth I will raise my hand to touch. I will close my eyes. when I open them, everything will be in place. even the thought of summer is a kind of faith. |
Poetry LogPoems are posted here when I'm ready to share them. I often don't title my poems. The date you see above the poem may be the date it was posted here and not necessarily the date it was created. To see more, click on the Archives below. Archives
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Unless otherwise noted, all content ©Paul-William Gagnon, Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-NoDerivs license.
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