Boredom and a Dead Mouse
I should be waxing my boots.
I should be mending the tear in the leather,
Needle in, needle out, then back through the other way,
Considering the cold and the pain of the trail-junkie
In the coming days,
In the winter days,
When the world turns into devil country.
I'm soaking the skin around my ankles
In rain that's hardly touching me
But for the water clinging to the plants at my feet
And the specks that hit my face when I peek out from the trees,
Moving toward the hoot, the screech,
And the unknown call somewhere to the west.
I moved backwards all day
And said it was good
And felt so still so still
While I watched my least favorite mirror
Breathe on the other side of my eyelids.
I should be writing letters.
I should be telling my friends I love them,
And how the leaves have turned to gold
And the snow that dusted the peaks is coming again Thursday
(or so they say)
And that I wish they were here and drinking my wine and tea
And telling me their loves their fears,
And telling me they love me.
I'm burying the mouse I found in the trap
In the laundry room outside my door,
And sitting atop the old forge behind my house
Watching the fog move over the face of the deer-mountain.
I wrote about falling through the ice
And it wasn't bad
Sinking down, in the blue in the white
Where the wound's bitter pain
Is the tiniest flame in the woodstove.
I should follow the music.
I should ask to sit beside unknown singers,
Whose voices bring me joy under darkening sky.
I walk past instead, and when I think to turn
I realize they have seen me go
And fear to cause confusion.
I go back home,
Spin in circles,
Play my songs
And sit beside the boots I have not mended,
Think about the letters I have not written,
Sigh that my voice is kept locked away
And my fingers can't find the right keys.
I consider the heavy bones
That keep me from my shape-shifting,
And they're alright too.
Anchor me to the riverbed
Beneath the earth, tie me to a tree
Until my roots have grown back into me.