Still morning holds the cold
green leaves and bright grass,
seen through the steam off
my mug.
My pen wags the dog
these tired,
beautiful days.
I'm sifting, sorting,
composting my inadequacies,
shredding my tell-tale
documents of doubt,
kept under my bed in
the dark
like a plaid canvas
suitcase from my dead father.
I think of snowy summer
mountains out west,
and my own space-time
stretched like taffy
across 3000 miles,
thin as a spider's silk
between my memories
and who I am.
If it snaps, I'm sure
I'll be lost
as old lovers and
well-worn friends
float away, untethered
by my clinging.
My four walls collapse
outwards, and silence
comes over me as I
step out into alpine
meadows of melting
ice and rich purple flowers.
Stuck in solipsism,
I picture myself
alone,
free to be me with
the small, infinite
price of solitude.
Love and Home take a chisel
to my stone mountain,
driving steel all flesh
sweat brown toned
muscular singularity
and chip away
at my old reality,
the song of the steel
welcome like a
terrifying healer,
to sublimate my
winter into a
new spring.
