I miss the pause
for mystery
the beguiling crook
of the crone's
withered finger
how a crevice advancing
through a toppled log
can fit the whole
of a kingdom, comfortably
moss overtop
to muffle
the secrets
I miss the wondering wave
of not knowing
collapsing upon
some silver-sighted shore
where the questions sprawl
across rocks
like sirens
calling, calling, calling
for more
5 comments:
So many times I have seen a hollow in a log, or a bend in a tree and have imagined whole worlds therein.
I understand this--though it has been decades since I roamed hills and hollows enough to actually see other worlds. It sounds as if you left behind a magical place for the mundane. *sigh* I would move on--but limited choices made 30 years ago now remain an anchor to the wallow of the city sty.
Hope all is well Sarah.
Charles, I'm glad it's not just me.
Mark, it's going a little better lately. Read some poems at my first ever poetry reading today and didn't die of mortification and wasn't quite booed out of the room--so you know...better.
I wish we had more of that in this town. It was really nice to share a space with people who love words as much as I do.
That first open mic is always "memorable." I hosted 2 over the course of 5 years that was some real fun, I got to get my ham on and encourage the shy, most of whom went on to ace their university speech classes. If you don't have a regular place to publicly read but you had more than 3 people at the one you went to then you have the beginning of a movement Sarah--all you need is a space.
I love the wonder lust in your words and understand the aching for what was.
A port town is where my home is now and the natural world is close to hand, yet somehow not close enough.
Anna :o]
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