--9--
i think of your seed:
and in features my eyes
too lowly to behold,
i find bright rapture
warming my face through
these intently closed eyes.
a promise of hope and
devotion whispered
among the roads of
leaves. falling only
to reveal spring.
a warm breeze from
a stark North. a land
of past Bronze and present
Green imagined for my
lamenting eyes so blind
to obvious destiny.
my ears often warn me
of what i cannot
behold. but this voice
speaks to me of a thousand
burning wonders, in a thousand
different tongues. all of
which i can muse over with a
soft and eternal affection.
--10--
I recall the empty plains
of brown grass, void of
promise or established
progress. But now,
Transformed:
A dark and cold
expanse of invitation:
oppurtunity for warm
blood and another's
enticing presence.
Inside, with a snap,
a lonely birth illuminates
forgotten childhood fantasy
and hushes doubt into locked
corners. wishes excited
from slumber now twist and
shape their form into a sense
of tangible reality. a journey
shared between the bond of two
unfolding veils.
strong enough to withstand
a rolling, green sea, concrete
highways and silver, towering beams:
a bond of understanding the pain
felt in reprieve and the doubt
of silent retreat.
--11--
Silence she keeps in her
secret box, concealed
by the wavering alteration
of a light's ambigous mastery.
Secrets diminished for she
dares not to expose her careful
and exact science of precaution
to suspicous disbelief.
But, in trusting, she molds a key.
Fitting this to her insecurity, the box
removed, she finds relief in unloading
the weight of her keep.
Her claims of miraculous
intervention, a sure sign
of the heavens, surely
as fictional as the gospels
only children seem to read.
Her very uncertain self defines
certainty. Examining flexibility
in even the stiff textures of
an old dying tree. And then creating
life, drawing thick sap from its branches.
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