Leaving This House, by pd lyons

Leaving This House

Through leopard clouds the day’s sunlit fingers open,
soft afternoon, occasional whispers between finches
knowing my need for such kindness
even crows come quietly…

What is it of memory and seasons?
What does this shift to autumn bring me?
Why remember what I do? Forget what I forget?

A bed of rolled up cotton,
sun dried white sheets against pale skin,
wishing it was some hangover
so wind chimes could sound beautiful again,
sunlight be inviting and coffee all the medicine you’d need.

I know of this other time when drowsy dancing on sweet wine
we sank beneath that wind chime tree
surrendered on the beating earth
something more than blood and bones,
a tender lightening wove between us
our own muscles able to change the world.

Now such things can not be spoke of.
Distorted by sick eyes they’d only deepen your
regrets, as if what was could ever not be.

If you responded to preaching I’d simply preach.
Instead I must lure you by disguise –

Coffee from thin sharp equatorial mountains,
audibly stirred blue stone mug.
Herbs infused with full ripe summers.
Small secret woodland tinctures.
Ointments rich in years of flowers.
Oils soaked in sunlight, stored in our own damp cellar
warmed as needed over an open flame.

Somewhere past all anger, melted only by tears, yield the ways of memory.

 

 

Advertisements