The Long Dark

I want to understand
His habit,
His instinct –
How he can sense
The sun’s shifting
Point of view,
And whether
He has learned
To adapt,
To flex
Into these wheeling changes.

These little curiosities
Stacked one upon the other
Take a lifetime –
Or longer –
To satisfy.
And someday,
Maybe we will get to see
The shining everything
Or the dark nothing
That awaits
On the other side
Of the high wall.

For now,
Let each brick
Be a beauty unto itself:
The sunrise blessing,
Deer in the woods,
A rattling breath,
Crooked eye,
Slow water, frozen at the edges,
His voice,
His fingers and what they have known,
Words cleverly arranged
And cautiously spoken,
And that great blue heron –
Inexplicable in the hardening winter —
Swooping low over the highway
As I speed
Past the place where we meet.

These whispering mysteries –
Let them continue to descend.
Though I can feel
Time’s toothed gear in the bone,
The coiled springs,
And how they require a steady hand –
Give them the windings they need.
None of this is disposable.
And I am not yet ready
For the answers.

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About Emily

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

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