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glaciers through the
valley poured cold muscle rounding it so that water could slide through sans thought. we mimic the artistry when making little human things sometimes approximated with grace more often jumbled and smashing things jealous as children. we don’t really know time or the heart we climb these peaks as if we could rise out disasters we have made by exertion alone. wind haunts us. lifts our souls a little. reminds us where the kite strings are attached. and in storms: what it would take to break them. I am thinking this morning
of all the bridges I burned in this short life—the human ones of course: in the heart’s warehouse of regrets bricks and steel float like feathers but words sing like dropped anvils, piercing calls, like those of lost hawks. our hearts, I think, are more readily made to forgive others than ourselves; the dead don’t come back in familiar form they wear new masks but speak old words we should recognize but too often don’t. if only we were like the trees: in death giving back all to whatever we had choked and shaded the light out of a green laughter running over our toppled backs. |
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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