Truest

Who am I to say don’t?
The bluebird is truest —
the only friend to seek through darkness —
a greeting,
and a blessing,
as if to sing or share this falling.

And we lessen with the days.
Hold it back.
Let it move deep
to gather where it hurts.
We keep it back,
and we keep it back.

And when we come upon
this frozen water,
it cracks the foundation.
So we let it.
And it’s silly to cry about it,
but maybe this salt
will melt the ice.

And I am done
with one-sided and with reaching,
only to draw up this empty bucket.
Now is the time
for turning,
truest,
or else we must risk
some final dissipation.

And do the trees know
their sleep is only for a season?
In their shadows,
I fold my arms and legs,
cover myself with patchwork leaves,
watch as the frost melts and rises,
melts and rises,
higher each time.

And I sleep on it,
and sleep on it,
and sleep until
dreaming is unbearable —
licking my wounds,
with one ear to the winter birds,
waiting for some ray of sun.

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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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