Sunday, November 30, 2014
Standing at the edge
of the field of queen anne's lace
I know I belong there
I see over you
“I am looking through you” he said airily
I turned and walked away
back to my own field
where he does not exist
did you think I would be silent as I was marginalized?
I have given birth to
worlds of seeds
tumbling like time
crashing through the river beds
into oceans I have wept
Monday, November 17, 2014
the places that change you-
memory is a canticle
informing the present with its solemn grace and cadence
whose passion lay behind her,
we look back through the caul of the ever-
thrum of traffic and dialog.
needs and must be.
appointments with no consequence.
we drink from this the chalice of rotting leaves.
makes good compost you say
always thinking of the garden
a thinning stand of trees
a fire in the distance
you can smell the smoke from the fire place
where someone has bought expensive wood from the stop and shop.
I want to go there again.
Like Lots nameless wife I am powerless
I look back
frozen in place.
There is no forward.
Cursed by a tide of unreasonable expectation and given no carriage out
I want to go there again
To drink longingly from the river of Pieria.