Do not look for illumination.
Mostly there is the twitch that precedes
gesture, the button’s resistance
as you try to slide it into the too-small
aperture slashed in a finger-width
of cloth. And yes, I know it is hard to disregard
how tiny and even the stitches are,
how they ring the space
that had to be opened first
to make way for the fastening.
Don’t feel betrayed
if there is only silence
in the trees, months of near
continuous rain. Thoughts sometimes rush
to collect at the bottom of the drain pipe.
Other times they vaporize in the heat,
fall for the voices warbling discontent.
When it rains, I am oddly comforted.
The rain soaks through, asks me to give up
a little of myself. Asks me not to be so hard.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Memory: A Tonic
- Orality: Little Treatise
- Dearest one, I am Prince Ashily Quatama
- Every Death
- There are words and there are words:
- Little Voyage
- Atlantis Rising
- In the Ablative
- The wren in the lilac cycles through its songs at breakneck speed—
- If the future is a bird headed for a summit too far away to tell:
- Tending Fire