Saturday, January 24, 2015

In Winter My Ax Rests

I don't leave the broken rocking chair. The icicle at the front window glistens and dissolves as afternoon passes. People visit and people leave; no method or system can prevent or manage it. Earlier, walking, the dog and I came upon the ruins of a barred owl. Rare enough that I couldn't remember the last time I beheld one like this, august morning herald bloodied across the trail, altogether silent. Language found you and failed to hold you; my whole life descends into question accordingly. Pine trees shade the old sheep pasture subject to reclamation but in winter my ax rests behind hay bales and I cannot for the life of me reach it. Perhaps what rises is bound to fall, while that which falls contains the dream of rising. Or maybe there are other laws with which I am yet unfamiliar. What do I know, so lonely and cold and wracked by desire? Word by word going down, throwing aside my cane, into a darkness indifferent to cripples and lovers both.

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