Jumping

we have had many suddenly seeded dandelions,

sent down for wintering, remarkable happenings

to us (birthing into manifest destinies) yet I am
the same, never born and never dying,
never sighing too deeply or sleeping
too long, waiting for the light to change,

the air to bite back, in its season.
Waiting for green again, for growth, but

not too soon, and not before the darkest night

to be cut and made useful again; made to fit you
like a glove, the white crocus and the saffron

stamen, the very extension of
my own emotions, (even your eyelash
is the same substance as me) the
glittering stars of early in-between moments
strung out, driving past midnight to find the
right time and place for the right conversations.

(who is it that stands by the mountain gate?

and what is the answer to the riddle?)
but there are only deserts. only circumstances,
only fervent graspings, the right pair of hands,
the right words, the write words to touch you
sincerely. when I say there are remarkable
happenings, i meant you to me. I meant

the moments that arrive unthinkingly when i least
expect to feel anything at all. i remember again
and again the happenings, the never dyings but
the easiest exhale, soft after the sleeping just long
enough, the bouquet of devotion, the severing
of old tidings and tithings to lost prophecies,
the slip of opaque miracles in the sink, turning
the water into winters and no wine. I cannot keep
time to the beat of whole epochs or histories,
but I will wrap into my bones the memories
like tree rings, the age of oaks and redwoods,

I will stand silently in the snow and mediate
the thousands of ages of waiting and listing,
to one side and to-do's, the sound of my
last wish in windy boreal warnings. I can't
turn in my keys, or my misgivings. Not with
a whole heart, or empty expectations. Even
brushing my hair has rhythm, even Rupunzel
cured her blind prince. Never birthing but out
of that same series of thorn bushes tumbling
into tales and dying out of favor or in frost,

falling out of towers is always red and bloody,

like a leap of faith into dark wildernesses.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

As the wise Emily notes, there is a ton o' stuff going on here: birth and death in dandelions, Rapunzel and re-birth, the steady and inexorable process of nature/life, and relationships and mad leaps of faith. It is a wiiiiide net this piece casts, and that always comes with the risk of excessive untidiness, but this piece is well-built and well-executed. This piece attempts a great deal, and succeeds marvelously.

[Nautili]

truly powerful imagery of many facets oflife. So many beautiful parts making up a breathtaking whole,"I can't turn in my keys or my misgivings. Not with a whole heart, or empty expectations." This spoke deeply to me along with the idea of not being able to keep time to whole epochs, but (single) memories wrapping into your bones like tree rings..............as well as Rapunzel in the tower brushing her hair and her bloodied, blind prince, battered by the thorns of life. But her tears restored his sight, healing tears, which embodies this poem in it's entirety.

[Ed Hart]

you can see we were all waiting for your next post...we've alighted like birds on a limb, singing praises...it warms my heart to watch the spirit flow through you...Ed

[Poeticpiers]

A beautiful piece of prose,Sheer pleasure to read. Your message is clear and simple but no doubt we all interpet filtered through our own experience Thank you for my pleasure

[Emily B]

you seem to have a perfect knack for narrating life's lessons, the ones I don't quite have words for yet . . . I've been reading lately about how man should be more like the flowers of the field, reaching toward the sun, unashamed and complete. But there are so many other lessons in these words of yours . . . amazing stuff . . . I will be back to it on another rainy day.