We are far from
And these tears
Have little to do
With sadness.

Once past the grinding
In the root
And all its implications,
Only thought is required
To generate these
Languid fevers.

And it’s easy to forget,
When consumed by fire,
That we are the wind
To carry it

And yes,
It requires more effort.
But the clarity
Of this time —
Our time —
Though it be bittersweet,
Is well worth it.

The ecstasy of reaching out
To touch a season passed,
Now we curl in
Upon ourselves
To fall
Like so many leaves,
Reflecting all the revelations
Of an age.
We grow ripe
As the harvest moon.

And all these jars
Of sun —
Reminders not to
Hide a light
In the growing shadow.

So find what keeps,
And here —
All for you,
And all for you,
And all for you.

Survival and sustenance
Are for later.
Kettle’s on,
Soup’s simmering.
And today,
There are more than enough
Places at this table.


About Emily

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: