What?
I wait motionless in silence, hearing nothing but the brush of my hair against the pillow fabric and the casual whirr of traffic beyond the window glass.
I expect the Earth to shake.
Or that waters will well up.
Shall fire sweep in with the wind?
Even still, I prize the void.
(Art credit: “Sacred Rectangle” rock formation; Tiger R., age 7)
I wonder what you look like when you stand there
Just stand there
Unadjusting
Allowing the elements
Living with cotton draped where it wills
If our souls don’t ask for our skin to touch
Then we won’t get
Get
Where we need to be
Brother
If our arms aren’t soft while our will stays strong
Then we won’t claim
Claim
Our identity
Sister
come hither Sir Frost
this bare shoulder is ready
speak in tough squall tongue
There is no color
There are no words
Nothing to be sketched or photographed or even imagined
There is no color for this
A desolate of some sort
Wilderness to me
And my coat never warm enough
So many trees
Too tall to show their green to me
Too numerous to let me gain a path or compass mark
The roots of them I cannot get from under my feet
The dead moss but slippery still sees my every step at risk
I am tall and I’d fall hard
Who would know it in the dim
The dim
The dim harasses my eyes
Hamstrings my mind
So I refuse to see
Still I know
The wolf watches
Ambery eyes and charcoal black back there and sure-footed
The dim and the fog bother him none, confuse him not
Funny I fear though he will not bite me
Poison I am to him
Still he knows
I think I am alone
You say it’s a sigh
I see it as surrender
Go not back to sleep
This morning
Quietly
Well before dawn’s shadowy light
It was decided that sunflowers would await my own eyes
And then I breathed
Fireflies flowed with truth they must bring
Tragic truth
Pieces of hearts strewn about
Little lives glowing with faith pick them tenderly
Up
Affix them
Together
It is daybreak soon and I run to the windows again
When asked of your “Why”
Know that it’s tied to your ilk
Fixed to your feathers
Now comes the King
To the table
To dine
Neither filter nor manners concern him
How long the heathen’s reign
How far reacheth the aid of his decrees
How fair the one who won’t curtsy to him on this path
