Pandemic poems…
A second sun is born here,
a second sun lights fires
over our crowns
with magic words that poured
over the cliff sides…
They are clear
and we are thirsty
for the new language…
for spell words
that make possible a second moon
climbing over the mountain.
Rising as gentle as a morning Venus
returned from her time in Hades
her rest
in pomegranates and darkness.
We drop seeds along the path
and break them under our feet.
We are not making wine,
but planting a new world,
as we pilgrim to the second moon.
Love was an act of faith.
A storm we trusted
not to wash us away.
Bees we trusted to bring fruit…
Love was a bend in the arc
of time.
An arrow, still, angled
—its direction known—
waiting to be pulled back.
Love was a leaf
fallen
on the surface of the lake
gently shown its way to the ocean.
Love was a bowl
set down on the table.
Sure it would hold something
Worth holding.
Caught.
Pulled back,
An arrow notched.
Frozen.
We are all
Notched.
This city of trains,
Of lines
Of grids made to run…
An’ we are all
Caught.
The writers are in their
Black books
And I am in my black box.
All of us in
Heaven’s hands.
Comments