481 Readings

One Slat

This morning I woke in the country
the sun was seven slanted against the trees making black bones
on frosted grass I pulled on
a sweater from an oak trunk in the guest room and drove
down gravel roads to
a place I remembered

it’s tall grass turns golden in the fall
blowing stark beside still
cobalt water
the water has a conversation with the sky
the conversation is an old one
they whisper rustling leaves and clouds
secrets of being alone except to
stare into the face of the other

(the mysteries of different kingdoms
vast in thier own blackness
but reflecting the same blue)

there is an island
silvery trees stretch long bony white
fingers from the middle of the lake
to the sky
in longing
but there is content
they have their intimacies
red and orange paint
the land to woo

I sit curled against the wind
then go in search of
a barn I know
paint chips away from
gray wood
the grass grows the same on either side
of an empty door frame
half the roof is missing
I sit on the ground and
look up
alternating closed eyes

this was where I came to hide
in the empty open of the plain
nothing large enough to
obstruct the parallel of sky and land
lying in the grass
waiting for the ground to swallow me

small in one

he is so
Posted 12/26/11
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