I come to you, bearing tears.
Take what I
can give - an elegy, gem of genius. Drink my flame. The waves.
Because when the thunderstorm
approaches, not a sound is heard here. The pounding silenced,
we're protected. I will stay until it slips away. Above the beams, the
limits of all you think you can endure, find me succulent as ever
there was green. Lean up against my boundaries, budding,
and wait for the returning point. Moments, sublime,
in rhyme. Movement twinkles, their rythm, heroic
eye minds. Cleaving to the
prophet's words, I understand. I stand. Rise, too.
The sun flies off rooftop now, off blank page,
stealing patience from what she's learned of us.
In falling, unrepining heat, we gaze up with gratitude.
This conversation becomes our discipline, pieces of
which, later pierce, dissect the
whole, and I swell beyond, pluck fear like grass, clutch
and then release.
The Sunday Whirl