from the dark

The bluebirds
warm themselves
atop the nesting boxes.
And despite shortening days,
there’s time to linger.

The boy who said
I did what I didn’t
passed ahead —
just as all secrets
someday cease.

And nothing floats
on frozen water —
it’s hard to tell
which is what:
ice or sky.

Like everything living,
we’re still marking time,
constantly stumbling
on what to live up to.

And I knew you were broken-hearted.
But who doesn’t come
to love their scars?

Our confidences are unequal.
He is wide with words,
while I struggle
with the segments of secret
that are mine to convey.

Only the dead grass
in the meadow
has had it from me —
I buried those letters
by the break
before the burn.
those seeds
that have yet to fly.

On my knees,
a hipbone altar
holds everything for Orpheus
and his most perfect music,
as it flies in the face
of the Furies.

These are the virtues
we hold to:
and the openness
behind a closed door.

we wait for
what we wait for:
The time will come for telling.


About Emily

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

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