this is a story
about companionship
in the mornings
when I rise
I pace the floor
noting shadows
and silences
that watch my movements
neither guardians
nor sentinels
their significance eludes me
on the patio
I can lean against a fence
that forms a boundary
between myself
and the garden bed
unkempt
through my neglectful ways
rebuked for my own insularity
for a passing moment
I feel ashamed
have you noticed the spiders
their webbing clings
to places I rarely think to gaze
but this morning
there is a lattice work
where I placed none
against the rising
light it is beautiful
I touch the walls of my surroundings
I run hot water
across my hands
my doona adapts itself
to me
I have three paintings
that I bought once
hung on my wall
and two chinese warrior men
waiting very patiently
my companions
when I touch their terracotta skins
a dust adheres to my finger
they willingly share themselves
I am all they know
it seems
that is enough
somehow
for them
but doesn’t answer questions
about things
I need to know
and
speaking into silence and shadow
cannot reflect an answer
or an echo
to fill my spaces
in your absence
~
Lovely build up, and the last two lines are just beautiful, quite caught me in the solar plexus. Nicely done.
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That’s lovely cath. Thank you. Found it in the archives tonight and thought I’d resurrect it, as I’m batching and it’s quite empty round here
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Brought a lump to the throat
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A touch melancholy, I’m getting soft (or perhaps always was).
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how can a poet not be? The crafting of feelings into a few words – it takes a special connection to the emotional side to be able to express the completeness of such to so many using things that seem small but bring the hugeness of it all … a lump in the throat
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đŸ™‚ Thank you, Cage.
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