(tbt) Feast

From August 29, 2011…


She put it forward,
at last —
unable to bear
a lonely hearth.

She sharpened the blade,
lit the fire,
and rowed her boat
out past the reef.

Began to take it in again.
Opened the windows —
let in the wind,
sun receding.

And sitting there,
in a lullaby of lonely voices,
how so much darkness
could gather beneath the slanting sun.

Let them in,
Stoke the fire,
and put the kettle on.
Uncork the bottle
and pass it.
You should know by now,
the futility of a locked door.

If it comforts,
clothe yourself in quiet,
and find the one thing
to anchor you to earth
(lest they trick you
into riding along
on their own dreams
and backroads).

Blade against wood grain.
The stirring of the pot.
Cool herbs to be added
just before the end.

This music that they make —
let it in.
Like to like,
gather them here.
Let them feast.
(It is the only way
to heal this,
wary watcher.)

Their thousand cuts will sting.
But how much worse —
the untried heart.

And Yet

It’s not
as though
I’ve nothing
to say.

I get distracted —
sideways addiction,
the silent,
obsessive considerations.

And I am
all too easily
knocked from my feet.

The finding
and finding
and finding.


So I will eat a bowl of cherries
I want to eat a bowl of cherries.
And I will drink water in a blue glass
I want to drink water in a blue glass.


And yet,
here we are —
bedeviled with impending judgement

(and the still-warm eastward-moving sun).

And yet,
here I am.
And look —
the goldenrod is still just beginning.