A brown thrasher sang.
His plainsong
now a sifted echo
as the moon enters our room
with her lamp.
Its translucent
flame
lengthens the legs of the dresser
in shadow. Parallel lines
that frame this flat stretch of waiting
in-between --
one moment to the next.
one
pearl bead to the other.
Your shoes and shirt lie dishelmed
on the floor.
I want
to restore
the ease you felt walking
under green pines
the cool comfort of cotton
billowing against your back
But I
cannot
you rest on a rug
curled in pain, knees clutching a pillow.
Your spine's inflamed
waiting for the massive ache
to pass -- and my breath's caught
like milkweed on its bone briar;
While I wait
for The Holy Mother
To intercede.
______________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment