Heart grown gray, heart
tressed with care: tell me why
the bowl never seems to fill
though I’ve poured all the sweet
water I could find, countless trips
through the years— And winters,
I’ve cut off my hair and bartered
its gloss for coin to line it with broth
or glistening fat and the russet
of vegetables grown rich in the soil;
and in summer I’ve waited beneath
the trees to catch what gleanings might
thicken, of wood thrush or cardinal
song: but still you will not eat—
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
The trick is to be full, tho just passing thru
each of those things
whole in their own instant
while the heart regrets its own briefness:
sees trips, water, coins, fruit
tho not the swift dip of moths,
nor hears the small breath of flight,
feels the cool touch of gold on clay
the gift of its glint left on the
walls of the bowl by
your panning heart.
Lovely lines about the panning heart, Peg.
Heart grown gray, heart/tressed with care: tell me why/the bowl never seems to fill…/though I’ve poured all the sweet/water I could find, countless trips/through the years—
HEARTACHES
By the time I fill up to the brim,
I ‘d have coughed up sediments
of crushed stones, jagged pebbles
and the craw-sticking bone chips
that remain from downstream
sieving for the one golden nugget
that was never there. I thirst still.
But the summers of our pine city
refuge have come and gone, too,
with our windy spaces, now left
as frozen wind tunnels when you
abandoned the cone-strewn trails
for your will-o’-the-wisp: a full
bowl of nectar laced with laughter.
—Albert B. Casuga
07-10-11
Also reposted today at:
http://ambitsgambit.blogspot.com/2011/07/heartaches.html
This is delightful.
Thanks for the side prompt on panning, Peg. Solid images.