Like a letter someone writes in the early hours,
as rain turns all the windows to skin.
Like the ink that streaks across the vellum
surface, ending in a flourish or a dash.
Like the light that filters upward from the ground
as mid-day heat; or condenses in beads of sweat.
Like a blur, like a wing, like a shard;
like a face passing behind the shutters.
Like the sky that’s often mistaken for weather;
and the world beneath it going where it goes.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
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Like the sky that’s often mistaken for weather;/ and the world beneath it going where it goes.
UNCERTAIN WEATHER
“We have known them all already,
known them all”. Thus, we measure lives,
abandoned hopes, laments, even sighs.
We have heard them all already,
the prayers that remain unanswered
behind bolted doors, darkened rooms.
This anguish over being here and not
here is all too familiar, but like innocent
children, we still look toward times
when we eagerly open holiday boxes
and find surprises no longer there,
but manage to smile anyway, bottle up
a “No thank you,” and move on to other
boxes, only to find feigned familiar
joy that those are still the wanted toys.
Like uncertain weather marked in the sky,
we move on, unchartered, with the flux,
like all things plotted begin then end.
—Albert B. Casuga
06-23-11
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http://ambitsgambit.blogspot.com/2011/06/uncertain-weather.html
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Like the sky that’s often mistaken for weather;
and the world beneath it going where it goes.
Or like that rattling pulse escaping under the fingers:
playing pooh-sticks with the blood of our hearts;
hoping our lives will re-appear
on the other side of the bridge.