(Pine Trees painting taken from here)
I’ve been finding it difficult
lately to have much faith
in the things I once
took to define me.
Like writing, for instance,
that need to impress
on the world
what I make of it.
Why bother,
the mind asks,
(not unreasonably, I think)
when it’s been said often enough
and better--
Why contribute to the
overcrowded amphitheater?
I don’t know.
Maybe this lack of ambition is
merely depression’s indifferent
cousin or a bug I can’t shake or
maybe it has something to do
with the wintery landscapes
I keep plumbing in my sleep,
brushing the snow from
my head and my shoulders
before I am fully awake.
(This is not true.)
No, the mind is not
complacent; it apprehends
and grasps; it has learned things
along the way, in spite
of itself.
Logic holds that we must be the
craftsmen to our artists’ dreams
or the hunger will die
and days’ll pile up like
existential episodes on the DVR.
So everyone is invested in some-
thing, even if it’s just the notion
of a personal narrative.
Everyone picks a religion.
And so I reach for you.
Paul,
when we are locked to-
gether inside our mortal
storm, like a boat unto
water or--wait, no
like just
you and me
--bodies free of
any editorial eye
You looking
into me
Me looking
into you
That is honest.
That is end and epiphany.
And so I say:
I may never write again.
And so you reply,
Sarah. There is snow in your hair.
