Sunday, April 23
I count my innumerable deaths
as birds dance along
the invisible thread
of her thoughts.
Her mind steers away from mine,
leaving a glowing wake
of unspoken words and unfelt emotions
in the space between our beings.
I may never find the bottom
of this wind, which seeps
through shrouds of dead leaves
as if trying to wake them up.
Blades of grass reflect her steps,
but not mine, a sure sign
that I was not meant to follow her.
She nods below clouds on fire
to the pulsing husk of the skies,
each eye a galaxy of little suns.
And no silence is the same
Poems for Angels ~~Piero Scaruffi
Tonight I sat outside on the steps alone.
The heat of the day has left its mark here. The plantlings I just put in were wilting, their blossoms withdrawing in desperation to escape the suns cruelty. Their withdrawal as loud as any silence I have heard. That silence that screams for notice. I set about watering them, ending their misery, for this moment at least.
By tomorrow morning they will be outstretched and beautiful once more.
Amazing what the smallest amount of attention does in the face of such neglect.
Tonight I will retire, still spent from overcoming a bitter bout of illness, and dream the dreams that have been haunting my nights of late. Some part memory, some part illusion. And I will hear that voice that has been my healing; strong, vibrant, amused by my need and violent in the face of dejection. I will wrap myself inside what has for so long been my haven. The voice of my other self. And I will rest there peacefully. Rejuvenating, growing strong. Because we have battled and our battles have finally come to an end. We have come to a place of shared understanding.
I can rest easy.