i have misunderstood
the plum
something so simple
something often overlooked
we feed each other slices
of sweet
ripe fruit
collecting the juice
with our tongues
and sucking out the flavor
from our lips
we taste both the fruit
and each other’s skin
this is our language
words don’t work for us
it feels primal
it feels perfect
this is all we want
sticky fingers and lips
and the pit we leave behind
it’s midday.
i empty the used coffee grounds
from the press.
it’s too late now for
another cup.
i carry the
grinds to the compost;
walking barefoot through the grass
the air is thick with humidity
the lawn
feels damp underfoot.
i pause, gaze upward,
shielding my eyes
from the sun.
above me,
one thin wisp
of cloud.
it seems adrift, out of place.
can you see this?
wherever you are,
can you see this?
the shape of the cloud
is so feminine
in shape;
voluptuous, round,
gesturing in a way that is both crude
and shy way.
can you see this?
i feel out of place.
here in the yard,
on the grass soaked with humidity.
can you see me?
wherever you are,
can you see me?
i stand there until
the cloud
melts away into blue,
a rich blue,
a humid blue.
wherever you are,
can you see me?
rainwater pools
on
the field
reflect
the sky
and the setting sun
they glow with color;
from
one surface to another
crimson fading into violet
and then night falls.
My body holds memories.
I sense time slipping by
through my fingertips.
Sometimes I lie awake
and trace the lines
that reveal my story
in the thickness
of my gut.
or I wander in
my dreams
looking for colors
that belong to things
I’ve forgotten.
a cloud
too graceful
to be gray
what do i know
about grace
i dreamed last night.
i couldn’t find my pen.
wait, that’s not quite right.
i didn’t really lose it.
it was just hiding from me.
that’s different.
i couldn’t write anything.
my fingers felt tangled.
and without it,
nothing made sense
at all.
maybe this sounds confusing.
but it isn’t.
in my dream, i woke up
and saw the pen
was in my bed, and it had burst
now i was covered
in thick ink
that flowed over my body
and eventually into my mouth.
when i tried to speak,
i gurgled
and jumbled
and tangled thoughts
spilled out of my mouth.
There is
a tree,
it is passing.
it is
dying.
I won’t call it sickly.
It isn’t.
It stands quietly,
Its branches reach out,
still strong,
stretching out into
the sky.
It lets its leaves fall.
So in love with
this moment.
it will
let this last forever.
the gardener is working
in the earth
and a child calls
for his mother
When I was a child, I copied
the way you moved
and I would ask,
What should I call you?
I tried to find
a word I hadn’t
learned yet,
a word beyond
what a child could understand.
It was something unfamiliar,
Now, as an adult, I still
find myself asking,
What should I call you?
There are no gestures now.
I don’t understand
That’s what it means to grow older.
This is a shadow,
and this, too,
is part of life.
the lilac tree
is ready once more
with blossoms almost here
about to bloom
and last year’s buds
are now just reminders
turned inward on themselves
this is how nature
teaches us to move on
shows us that
we have to accept
with time
we also need to let go
in time
of every season
and their memories
only a lilac tree
could
show us this
with such bold defiance
with such gentle grace
onebreathpoetry.com 