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
the sky glows pink
a thin line of color appears on the horizon
it looks pale and soft
the trees stand as dark silhouettes
the humid air lingers around me
the heaviness is broken
a gentle breeze brushes past
it touches my skin softly
it is just a soft touch
hold on a moment
stay here through the night
stay
silhouettes begin to move
they move with grace
a thin strip of light appears
now, it is early dawn
stay here through the night
stay
i began to wonder
about the melody
you sang
then
the bird became
quiet
These are fragments of life;
I’m not sure any of this makes sense;
Still, these pieces seem to fit together somehow.
Somehow.
And what of it?
How do we connect the dots?
All of this,
every bit of it!
We might call it life,
But how do we come to accept these pieces
And make them whole?
So what does it all mean?
What are we supposed to make of it?
Have you seen
My thinning hair?
I have too.
I know you’ve noticed.
And,
My wrinkles or my tired eyes?
“Ok, yes,
these are pieces.
I understand.”
Somehow,
We’ll keep insisting,
that somehow,
they all fit together.
children run along the shore,
their laughter heard over gentle waves.
they wade into the icy water,
unfazed by its sting.
their voices are full of energy
carried by the wind.
you can see joy in their eyes,
their innocence reminding us of something we once had.
when did that change?
when did we start to feel the ache in the air
and notice the cold settling inside us?
when did we pull back from the water
and touch it with cautious toes?
almost as if we are afraid of what it might remind us of.
when did we stop making sandcastles?
and forgiving the tide for washing them away.
when did we forget how to let ourselves get lost
in the quiet joy of pretending?
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.
i woke up to blue skies
and noticed how gently everything moved
as the pine trees swayed
out on the horizon.
my tea is black
rich and strong
i try to sip it slowly
the mug is hot
against my lips
i do not remember
if yesterday was the same
or if the day before
was any different
now, i’m not sure
if it even matters
today the sky is blue
tomorrow it might be
dark gray all the way to the horizon
and when the gray
stretches on and on without
any definition
i’ll remind myself it doesn’t matter
and that tomorrow
it might be deep cerulean
endless from the earth
to the heavens
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
I reach out
I reach out again
just reaching
just enough to understand
the feeling that comes with
reaching out
Is it a chickadee or a nuthatch?
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.
The feeder rests
under the overhang.
I hold my breath and stay still as they come,
their delicate beaks
extracting a single seed;
Their thanks seem to glow in the morning air.
I should replace their food.
How old is it?
Do they eat old food?
I feel unsure about this
and so many other things.
If I take down the feeder,
They might think it’s gone and fly away.
It would take 5 minutes
to refill
but to them,
Maybe that pause feels like five hours or even five months to them.
The rain has made them hurry
when they feed.
They swoop in and quickly fly away
as they flash against the gray sky.
I sit quietly, letting my coffee cool as I watch.
These are only brief moments
for me
Yet for a chickadee, it might be a lifetime
Or perhaps a nuthatch
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.
onebreathpoetry.com 