Being Here

Looking out the screen door that never quite closes,

I realize that color does not stick in my mind.

I could not tell you whether the building to the South is green or brown or blue,

Nor the amount of snow on the mountains,

Nor the shape of the trees that line the path at the foot of our stairs—

Are there any?

This music is a cloud in my mind,

Except the few songs that rise above the storm,

Or dive below it, dodging raindrops and lightning.

I feel so empty here, and I shouldn’t.

I have love and trust and wilderness at my door,

A universe of wonders and mysteries to unravel,

Yet the spirits have gone a-wandering.

The ravens appear so infrequently now.

They are indifferent toward me, who lingers

A ghost forgotten in the summer Sun.

Even the Moon hides his face from me

Until his power wanes.

I suffer the heat, the light, the unending days,

Miss the cold, the dark, the long nights.

I don’t belong here, this taxing season,

Where my skin begins to darken in tandem with my heart,

And Memory becomes a memory instead of a god.

I can’t undo my confusion,

What I’ve created in this past winter spell.

She is beautiful, and I know this.

But my eyes glaze over and forget desire,

Incline themselves toward closure,

Seeking solitary incubation,

Slumber until the days grow short enough to endure.

I am static on a TV screen,

A jagged wave of energy in an inferno of sun beams,

Arrows, arrows spinning me about,

And I keep breaking them,

So the bathers in the grass are dismayed

By the scattered shadows.

Trap me in a jar and I’ll thank you;

Clip my wings and I’ll hate you;

Tell me to leave and I’ll spin in circles

Until my face splits in two

And there is no more difference

Between all my tears and all my laughter.

A breath on a tremulous flame

Dancing afraid on a thin lake of wax—

Cover the dark with a rag

And watch it melt onto the glass

Before its sparks can escape

Into the summer Sun.