How the grass
still grows here,
I do not know.
High, and waving on,
waving on.
It's the indigo
sky of warm
which made it so, perhaps. At least,
that's what I tell myself,
driving
down,
even with an aching
beating
warning me in double time
to
turn around.
But I can't,
and I won't,
till
I grasp,
clutching, what's marked.
I want the complication of the raw to stain while I cull out what's undecayed,
because in the glass of liquefying
landscape,
I see so much I never understood,
and I'll lay
low
in it,
all for you.
It's time
to
face the history,
honor the glitter of imposing season,
state
the birthing and
give
tribute,
finally,
to the wealth which waited.
Without us.
Without you.
I said it.
With.
I'm leaving something out.
With intent. I'm daring you to listen to the whisper of the rustling,
to face the music of the space we once upon a time inhabited.
Folly, maybe,
but the
swaying
steady,
still.
It was I who staggered away,
shamed by morning.
And I'm sorry I couldn't stand. I'm
standing now.
Returned, alone, way out here, surrounded by the vacancy, but taking comfort in the possibility.
Because the wild needs
no reason, so I, too, will answer
to the
glow of day,
heart
held out for rightful owner
to
take possession,
risk but a challenge, and I'm true-blue as the surge this time.
And loved. So what else matters?
Naming Constellations
Miz Quickly's
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