Letter to Sameness and Variation

This entry is part 28 of 92 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2011

Dear heart, at the wood’s edge, the blue-
headed vireo repeats its only line. It isn’t true
it has nothing to say— just as it isn’t true

that sameness will not want to make us
look again. The wind disturbs the waterfall
of dogwood blooms along the branch

and when they settle back in place
they are themselves, but also different.
The same way you return but also dazzle

with your many aspects, one day turning my
heart on its side and another, making me
cry out; or rendering me without speech.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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1 Comment


  1. Dear heart, at the wood’s edge, the blue-/headed repeats its only line. It isn’t true/it has nothing to say— just as it isn’t true/that sameness will not want to make us/look again.

    COMING HOME

    I am back, but I have nothing new to say,
    nor anything that I can offer save myself.
    Unchanged, undefined, unshackled, free.

    There is no other way you would have me.
    Would you rather I had lost my insouciance?
    Would you have me speak only one language,

    that of fear, and would not risk this loss again?
    Sing only your song? Part my hair another way?
    At the edge of the woods, I have mastered wiles.

    You’d think I had changed and now just a shadow,
    of a broken man, come home to lick old wounds
    that were left unsalved, cankered when I lost you.

    I am the same and this sameness will make you
    want to look again even if the thousand faces
    that you hold are those from a shattered mirror.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    04-16-11

    Reply

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