Saturday, June 29, 2013

Another Kind of Sleep

I awoke last night as you composed your message. Pushed back the curtains to look for rain. When you reach out, I long to reach back, but the familiar mode is no longer sufficient and so. Clouds cover up the moon, but pass. Are you there?

Are you there now? One sits for three hours on the steps, looking at the sky, its emerging foliage of stars, and wishes against distance, and navigates guilt. Cold tea and old thoughts comfort no one. Who sleeps, wakes, and then longs for the one who awakens them, which is only another kind of sleep. For there are no others: this is one of the laws.

Rose petals in rain fall heavily to the earth. Fireflies seek each other in darkness: throwing out their lovely lights. At last I stumble inside and lay down to sleep, the only surrender I can manage. And yet.

I have written and rewritten a dozen letters and sent not one of them. I have kept books intended as gifts because I pressed daisies and bluets between their pages. Truth asks nothing of us and so there is nothing to protect. Yet who calls, calls in vain, or seems to. When I wake it is morning: you are not here: and so I reach the only way I know: with words: little lights: these.

No comments:

Post a Comment