Who was I before you called?
My name a stepping stone
placed where you prefer
to think yourself—
Aeons ago Earth rose up,
bloomed beneath clay feet,
and Sea—brilliant—shimmered
into awareness. You blink.
Wren song solidifies the moment.
"You are. You are. You are," says the crow.
Its fussy feathered business leaves you
aching for a home to call your own,
sighing beneath wind's constant pressure.
Can you drift here with me
in this eternity, throw your thoughts
—those brisk-bright kites—
into the ever-changing sky,
soar above what you know [of me],
or come to rest, small and curled,
on the gritty rim of now, rocked,
forever rocked, o love of mine?
Woman found a place to lay her bones,
at peace beneath wind's gentle prodding.
Woman found. Still alive on the edge of time.
YOU ARE READING
Into the Blue Black
PoetryA collection of early musings on the nature of the Universe and my infinitesimal part in it.
