Thursday, February 23, 2012
If
If I look deep enough into the window of night halos of kitchen light my own grey head and moving past that, who am I? The word play domino impressions, fragile memories fluctuating body soft hearted emptiness? And oh this morning, always morning hardly silent always noiseless belief is who I am restored repaired dutch boy diked, band-aids cabbages kings strings and ceiling wax. What I was taught must I be ever? Some days begin like this; dark windows beyond my reflection seeing nothing remotely me. This is the day of daffodils or maybe tulips? Small brown bag thirteen bulbs to bring to the cemetery. To plant for my mother and for my father. Does the flower seem less sweet because we know it someday will fade? There is no place I know thats still and yet to observe movement must not the observe stand still? This I know for sure; it’s earlier in the morning than I like and I still need to get up get dressed right now or else the day will get away.
