Ark

(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.