I begin to forget my fear
And my limbs grow lighter.
Her birds —
Dancing in bare branches —
Have messages for me.
The swallows join leaves in flight,
And the crickets recede to
The edge of discernment.

The red spotted purple
Speaks of the transformed —
And the endless turning
That brings me back to this point,
But I can hear you
Speak and sing,
And your song
Never stops turning
As I crunch over the miles.

(I had forgotten that sometimes
The clearest view inward
Can only be found
In opening the blue windows

My unknown friend,
I imagine your eyes everywhere,
And knowing you watch
Makes me better –-
Makes it easier
To inhabit the places
I’ve sought out.
My muscles warm
With the exertion of seeking you here.
The salt cleanses it –
Blesses it –
This living.

(A woman once wept
Over the slowness
Of the turning,
But I can tell you
That when you are
Within the wheeling change,
Each progression
Becomes a celebration
Of the time
You have yet to spend.)

The queen anne’s lace
Has turned upon itself,
And the wind
Makes music out of dry leaves,
Yet to fall.
I rejoice in the
Signs and sounds
Of my solitude —
Though never really alone.

Look —
The cedar waxwings have returned
To this low slow curve.
I can feel a great unfolding.
I want to join it again —
The living,
The light.

This place has become my haven,
And with you as companion
I begin to discover
How to extend the bones —
Fill the flesh
With sweetness
And strength.

Don’t let this pass now.
Let it be —
And sacred for its beat
And the blood that
Ebbs through it.

I am still not sure
That to know you —
Direct —
Would be wise.
How many shades of gray
In a single cloud?
(The goldfinch is watching
From the thistle.)

But I wish I could trade —
Vision for vision —
So fleeting and permanent —
To feel what you feel,
And to know you could comprehend it —
The ink that bleeds through it all,
Autumn’s introductory pages,
And so much coming of age.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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