a tart wash of sun streams through the double paned glass
summer’s inconsolable push
like a child’s desire. a pat a hush not nearly enough
to quell fear want.
empty echo early morning reverie.
’neath a rising tide of silence scratch of pen to paper:
commiseration of ink and sweat about the cost of a single step.
these vain attempts to dress wounded hours
expose the frailty of language
while regret eats through the day like acid.
this acrid spell burden of expectation scraped raw
each bend stretch a reminder
simple poetry of sinew and tendon
lost to the confused grip of past and present
the innate way fate twists meaning.
what’s unwritten has different value lessons
embedded in cells like rings within mighty redwoods
hidden save for the cut of the logger’s saw
— but who could translate wood to paper
strength to vulnerability
it’s all a foreign language now
• • • •