Friday, September 30, 2011
I am a secret
longing to be whispered,
I am the clock face
you must check time and again--
my hands steady and deliberate,
I am the blue that precedes
blackest night indigo and iris,
and follows dawn,
the blue of forget-me-nots.
I am bright and dark,
a welcome and a warning.
I am a slow and studious
walk through the woods,
a joyous leap from the driftwood log.
I am driftwood, changed by water and sun
and dead to the place I came from.
I am the most inner pink crook in the conch shell
and I am the broad smile of sky
over open pasture.
I am the honest cold pain
of ice cubes between teeth,
the spreading warmth of sun on shoulders.