Hi, y’all. I’m thinking February may be a poetry month for me here. They might be short, like this:
may all our mondays
in their inky blue vastness
draw us closer in.
Or they may ramble, more like this:
my cutting tongue
only makes the faithless bleed;
with you it tastes of
your honey and my cinnamon,
our sweet simple truths.
i am a culler of words,
i throw away
almost half of what i mean
with others, because it does not do
to be fully understood —
because i am too vast
and unrelenting for them, like
mountains out of nowhere
(because they never look),
stubbornly insistent right up
into the clouds.
but you say rise, my love, and
you show me your own snow-capped peaks,
our words pouring, falling, flying,
nothing too dear or too awful,
too large or too small to be said —
said and heard and welcomed
like dew in the meadow at dawn.
which of us is the water
and which of us is grass?
yes. (by turns, and both together.)
i will drink you in,
all of your honesty, your triumphs and
your secret fears, will hold them
deep and safe and warm,
and we will sun our skyclad selves
later, sprawled laughing across the green,
then compact and tangled,
wild and closer than breath.
But hopefully they’ll be of value or at least passing entertainment either way. (Can you tell that my central theme of the past few days has been closeness? heh)
Stay safe, dear ones.