Sometimes, I am more broken than brave

At my wrist, constant beat of what the gecko sings in the eaves:
Be brave, be brave. I try to quiet that pulse when it hammers

too loud in my ears, when the merest tender bar of moonlight
threatens to break a dam of pent-up tears. In the mountains,

many years ago, I dreamed I could give myself to a lifetime
of work and words. And this morning I knew when a bird

touched down in the fig by the tremble in the net of leaves.
What it tells me is that the unseen magician has pulled

almost all the knotted silk squares from out of his sleeve—
rippling blue, golden yellow, crimson visible from miles away.

When I move to the couch to lie down in afternoon heat, I feel
the very fingertips of time press down on my lids. These days,

I am either sad and angry, or bitter and sad. I’m begging you,
please don’t let these be the only combinations at the end.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.