There is a space between us
where wild things linger,
where they frolic and lope within an untended glade,
where they inhale the stark gravity of roots.
We stare into the deep frothing velvet of silence
as seeds scatter beneath the glance of a fierce wind.
Petals were borne by a volcanic decision —
ash began to rise and grey, the landscape;
fragrance drifted, slow and tremulous,
a resignation torn loose from its moorings.
The moon is only a pale memory of sunlight.
Centuries ago (it seems),
I sat beside the hot concrete shores of a culvert,
trying to pretend it was a river and knowing it was not;
my eyes were dry and I believed I was lost
inside a storm that was only starting to brew.
I held a bright pinwheel at an angle,
waiting for the next slow gust to descend;
I wanted to tilt at windmills,
my perspective greatly skewed
by my apprentice stature —
wisdom would only court those who were willing,
but gave no quarter to those whose adulation
was grafted and insincere; mercy could not be uttered
in the midst of a long and desperate night.
The earth will bend and curve under the heft of grief,
swell nigh unto bursting with nuances of unearned pride —
we are all hand-tooled rockets, made without proper instruction,
lacking matches to hold against our frayed fuses,
immense rocks commanded to remain here
without waterfall's seductions to sculpt our insignificant faces,
to help us turn away from oncoming shadows.