I never imagined it. And I always thought you could create a life Like you construct yourself, In the dark, with your hands in the air of a dream.
But no. When it snows and is silent, bones are ancient with truth like skies so cold all of us reaching our hands up in the dark shudder in realization: creation is not a quiet stuttering dance. It is our stars bent on self-destruction, it is anything but a dream.
Waiting. Winter concise in tongue says, “It will never happen. It can’t.” Black birds chatty squeal “She’s forgotten, she’s forgotten you” like playground children in keep-away. Wood floorboards beneath my spine reason “Be content in memory, it is enough.”
I listen, and I wait. Only the snowy owl, rare in visits, winks “One day, one day. You’ll see.”
It seems, under such disappearing dusk,
years end like a funeral march, beautiful.
Seconds with frozen breath ascend to heaven.
Small lights shimmer then go quietly cold
beneath the pulse of evergreen fingers (undeterred).
Snow swirls patiently to a final resting place
with us who find, with each step, we sink lower,
lower. Soon our family will cover our eyes with
petals and coins. Another year will end.
in the way of magnets
such exquisite dance of limbs
our opposition: arms crossed, back to back,
then such a turn, you and I
eye to eye, drawn down a path, pulled
with a force of ancient strength, our
two palms pressed
transformative and stuck.
(had a dream of magnets… inspired this 3:07A piece)