From the mud came green, obstacles of life
and its suffering,
a fresh series of footprints not tethered to darkness
and those honeyed words
leaving the world behind in its wake;
tell me, what the riverbed said to make you forget?
Honest truths are generosity of graphite clouds,
or so it’s believed,
clear crystal blue that reflects when we pause to
sigh—I’d exchange my dreams
a thousand times
for the slightest chance that restless soul is awakened
with a hint of wanderlust
in search of deeper meaning on a cold morning;
sometimes we are meant to walk past the
riotous blooms and
sing the song of bristles instead—
that occurs when we spend time knowing ourselves.
Bind my wrists with silence golden,
it’s like the odor of French perfume woody and floral,
here autumn resides
slowly stirring awake,
liquid thick query bubbling in throat, “is it better
to postpone or presage?”
But I’d rather the hours lead the way,
the once skeptical heart now savoring its surroundings—
as if it came from inside the body,
its many chambers,
as if it required a language to speak to it.
Photo credits: “Riverbed at Ennerdale,” Fay Collins Art.
Sarah hosts at dVerse where we revisit a prompt on Fay Collins and
pay a tribute to her. Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: “Fay Collins revisited” @dVerse Poets Pub