Saturday, 13 December 2014

Dust to Dust: The next P. poem.

Dust to Dust:

Coming from wood
when he stood, still
as air after a thunderstorm,
his mind dripping - raindrops off leaf
and branch - memory and thoughts,
blue words falling from a mother’s disappointment
so soft the little boy strains to hear
and in the effort remembers the lesson.

Coming from wood
when he stood, feet,
hidden in a darkness
where air lives in pockets - forever trapped
in the desire
to remerge with each other. Toes
set into the soil,
roots that seep in dirt’s sea of  earthly secrets
to steal riches, carry
them towards the light
and offer them to the sun.

Coming from wood
when he stood, eyes
closed so the world dissolved
into scents and smells and the sunshine caressed
and the damp earth nourished,
he felt himself spread out large and thin -
a bridesmaid’s veil tossed into the sky
floating flimsy, folding
back upon itself, in the air
transparent and free.

Eventually he must land
but in those moments
when he let himself go
for seconds or minutes he felt his leaves
and his wind-chime heart
tinkled back at the world.

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