Sunday, December 30, 2018


My Lavender Summer

Swaying in these wide-open days ...
My heart is less a hammer than a thirsty August river seeking rain.
It comes as a promise in the incurious chill-past-five,
and in the peace, settled and exonerated.
October is a space and a place and a sin.
But she always keeps her word.

She no longer curses my name between one
ever-swifter sunset and the next.
Everything is painted with shadows of gold.
It's a stretch to that lonely plot from here,
but, against all reason, ever easier.
I tend it here--here amidst all the fluttering and floating and swaying.
And suffering.

Central to the task of Heaven:
unbrittling of the spirit.
But these days are like hate heroin:
the rage and anger and head-shaking disbelief
injected into veins weakened to slag by too many shots already.
I come up from the low more numb than the last, and evermore frail,
like a glass that has been washed too many times.

My little corner of the world--my little lavender corner:
may I offer you a prayer?
Can I recover?
Thinking isn't enough.
Thinking often is too much!
When I shut up long enough,
Eternity speaks, always much nearer to my skin than I deserve,
and cold as starlight.


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