To say, at least, how some days
it feels covered with moss;
at other times, with a thin husk
like paper, though one that can't
seem to hold any more ink. I read
that long ago, women slept
with the words they wrote
all day in secret, by the window
or under a tree while they waited
for lovers or the lady they served.
Then, a mere gesture overflowed.
Honey on the spoon and on the tongue.
Children still children, until
they no longer were. Clouds
formed only on the bottom
of tea cups. These days, I write
but don't necessarily feel unburdened.
Too many dead, too many dying;
and this heart of moss wanting to be
a sail filling up with wind:
not a scroll with all the names
of everyone it has lost.