Thursday, 17 January 2013

unlike stars that turn red before they die

i make a poor first impression
and sometimes the days just aren't long enough
to recall all the things we left unsaid,
but go on knowing anyway.
all the beautiful things stick in my throat.
your face tomorrow i imagine painted
with the silence of one lost for words.
with my body i absorb
the light from other people's windows
and gather you from my corners.
today in the library the unmistakable scent
of the perfume in the egyptian glass bottle
that sat on the bookshelf a million moons ago.
prone to exageration, but still
so many ways to time travel.
dear sacred heart, there was a time i stopped short
of feeding you the marrow from my bones,
but wrapped myself in clouds and waited.
longing to be the light for which you dug so deep.
fingers would fumble the rosary
of nights strung together like star studded onyx,

but (the epiphany did come) your heart, your vision,
ultimately were restricted
by the thin slats of your beautiful eyes.


Wingfall at dusk said...

A miscellany of beauty - you deftly capture so much with your words so lightly brushed and yet so full of such vivid imagery. Your work is always enchantingly beautiful and always surprising. I love going on adventures with your words - I see such wonderful things. "A rosary of nights" - sublime!!
And what wonderful libraries you inhabit, ma'am.

Emily Arnason Casey said...

wow, I love this and I love your blog!

Anonymous said...


ellom said...

"longing to be the light for which you dug so deep."This. And what comes after that.
Love the whole piece. You really are one of my favourite living writers.

♥ w o o l f ♥ said...

i have been away too long.
forgive me.
now i must reread.

♥ w o o l f ♥ said...

... which is exactly what i've done, what i'm doing. i must also thank you for your kind words, over at mine's. the excerpt, i must pin it on the board. the actual board, not a virtual one! ;)))

i am actually taking time. it is a wonderous thing. as if i'm exploring and discovering. in this furtive world, standing still... is also reading your poetry. the motions are pretty similar.

i am most grateful.
keep writing, cloudgatherer. it makes such sense.