something more than it appears

 

A cast iron bathtub 

sits

in our only bathroom of this 1936 home 

it is not some fancy claw-footed thing 

but boxy sensible and deep 

(rather like 1936 itself) 

my husband would like to replace it with one new & smooth 

but I am held captive 

by its rough rutted texture 

by its capacity to hold the landscape of lives lived over 87 years 

the topography of crackling lines 

enamel valleys 

palm-sized hills 

shadowed pockets white not white 

rivers of quiet bliss 

relief 

grief 

reflection 

a coarseness that oddly soothes worry with its time & wear 

an ancient passage that 

     if I could navigate my way curling thru the right channel

perhaps 

I would 

find 

my 

way 

home 

canvas

left to my own devices ...
i become rocked by the rhythm of highways folded inside out
i stand upon the cusp of you

and drink hummingbirds of delight 

swaying to the music that drips down from that indigo dome

regret lies broken & undefined upon your floor

left to my own devices ....
i wrap your warm gypsy hand about my heart
and dance to the
memory of fire
startled by the coldness piercing this night
i keep the vigil that is loving you

left to my own devices ....
i will sweep my naked being across this palette of blooms
and paint you with lemon verbena, ginger & an abiding whimsy 

knowing that it brings out both the merriment & the sorrow of your eyes

and

i alone will remain

left to my own devices ....
the patterns of people moving inside the lines numbs one 
almost
numbs one to the thrumming pain of the solitary stone
left in the frigid rushing river of this so called life
struggling against something unknown & un-named
cold

yet brilliant
dormant 

yet beating

smooth 

yet jagged
tame ... but not

mine
always
borrowed for a time into these small trembling hands
writing reading waiting ,,, writing reading waiting
is it suppose to be like this 
does everyone know truth  

left to my own devices ..
i would wear gossamer white gowns of lined-dried cotton
crisp & smelling of april
indistinguishable from the cirrus clouds of that day
that day
we broke the table
playing at passion & need & all things timeless & ours 

.... remember? surrender?

left to my own devices ....
i
would
remain ....
bold 
and wanting

The Hackberry

 

this chrysalis
this pulsing knot 

    of linen Dear,
lies just below the ribcage
three fingers right of the heart
Oh!
How the yearning pulls at tissue & rhyme
each gaze-every pause
before you there;
stoic
unremarkably unmoved by my desire
no tendril finds its way
no barked embrace
your trappings stripped by winter's wind
gray becomes you
but Oh how soon adorned you'll be by April
you have born witness to my days
steeped in solitude & surrender
you remained
steadfast
mighty
two carolina wrens dance among your nakedness
(jealous I am not, as they are of my own making)
singing of blue promises delight
endlessly branched to the heavens
as the wind picks up
and I gaze
I pause
against warming roots
pressed
remained
three fingers right of my heart

blue of first spring

the sky sings with vapor trails
pulsing against the buried pockets of the Akash Ganga
sounding of brightness & cobalt mystery
bird-wing to particles of faint stars & dust motes
gathered under this dome of shifting cerulean
morning's haze veils the depth
banishing dark matter beyond our spiral care
falling, colliding, enveloping

listen 
feel

the pressure of awakening rests
     in the wired connection of the reach
wind sweeps out of the west
warming in the rise of day 

between the panes of weather & waiting

outside the window 

lies the wind leaves tucked into corners 

the morning dove-grey a japanese maple a sculpture 

the rain 

words reduce the vast expectation of circular currents 

too narrow comes on the day 

too brief this pause before the rain becomes snow becomes 

later 

this day where words trap the vast soaring pour of 

light 

rubor's tale

to move the silver token
splay the sand
break the chalice upon the winter's land
throw the spark to fire
despite the cold thread
that starts
.... to
tingle
and pulse along the central nervous chasm
between the 3rd and 4th vertebrate of mercury & jupiter
with
no
regard
to the relative position of the sun
or the single-arrow-choice of authenticity
but to move anyway
to move into the crash of fracture
where broken glass becomes blood coursing
ripping
tasting of nightshade flight
to become --
to become not right
we touch
we tender
the abrasion to the sound
of
celt drums and saturday morning cartoons
and
our own faint fragile heartbeat
lapsed by the living
except trees .... trees will always bend
as does the sky
and the yellowed photographs found upon old black pages in old albums lost
so
we touch 
we tender
the carnival season rolls past; thunder, rain and rubies scattered
parcel paper & tight-ribboned bindings batter
the wad of injury festers
scolded & scalded & scaffolded
to its prime meridian line of less
never enough never good enough never
enough enough
forgotten ....
until
a drop of daring connects
the day 

a hand
lifts & tucks
knows
collects
gathers
straightening is felt
[felted]
smooth roundness of the whole
laid upon the back of the tongue
in waves of honeyed cake and vanilla rum
a bearable light felt
trees bend in sacred reverie
trees always bend 
sky reflects the cyan stirring
clarity is rubbed by that walnut hand to shine a fraction of
pearled opalescence deep deep into the fissure
finding it enough
polishing just enough
returning
to
diamond