The sky looks hard
Like hammered metal,
And the wind sounds tired
Looking for a place to rest.
Like leaves and cobwebs at the door,
I’m trying to catch my breath;
I’ve been here before.
Where to go, what to do
When sudden rain comes down strong;
Smudge of clouds rolls dark and gray;
Night was never so long.
I don’t want to see where I’ve been –
Dark places and faces estranged;
With just the blink of an eye,
What’s at rest is changed.
I am in a faraway mood
Under a night sky spell;
Moonlight has vanished into fog –
For what high cause, who can foretell?
Like a rose bush old and wild,
Untrimmed and out of control,
Memories reach high and wide;
The prickles are not subtle.
The past doesn’t give straight answers
To straight questions asked of it;
Challenges our right to inquire
Something particular and private.
The past is an artful dodger,
A rascal that wheedles its way in;
I can’t stay angry and disapproving
When it departs with glee and a grin.
But tonight, my thoughts are endlessly sad
And bitter towards the villain;
My independence is shattered,
Tangled in webs of the unforgiven.
I doubt the magic and mystery I am made of –
I feel only the dark and grotesque;
My endless interrogations of the past
Are quintessentially Kafkaesque.
Resolute, firm, and sure of itself,
My past has stood for 61 years;
It holds the hands of my dearly departed,
And the sorrow of my tears.
No one lives forever;
Each beloved face changes –
Even the longest river
Winds and rearranges.
Familiar prayers unfold
Like a fetish bundle dressing;
Standing with the lost and the bereft,
Shadows know sad blessing.
Getting close to truth can hurt,
And I can live with that;
Not getting close is a lonelier hurt –
I don’t think I’d want to live like that.
I look for meaning in restless wanderings –
I know that beauty and undying grace are all around;
Spirit connects the notes of a tune,
The silence in between the sound.
When Spirit said they were leaving me,
When She said they had to go,
I knew She meant not my memories and dreams –
But the hurt, the loneliness, the cold.
Once upon a time there was what there was,
And if nothing had happened there’d be nothing to tell;[i]
Dreams want to be real and stories told –
Just ask the tenant at Wildfell.[ii]
Perhaps tomorrow morning
When I awake with the sun,
Sadness will be tinged with something sweeter,
And bitterness will be on the run.
I just haven’t been impressed lately
With life outside the forest;
I like the conspiracy of winter trees,
Who whisper like ghosts in chorus.
Under a night sky spell;
But look, moonlight and a scattered sweep of stars
Finally, silently reveal themselves.
To wane when I must,
To return strong and robust,
I could practice stability, reliability, and trust.
[i] Charles de Lint, Dreams Underfoot
[ii] Anne Brontë, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
Composed as February 1 turned to February 2, 2019 – during a winter night that crafted a heavier mood and darker tone to my thoughts. Winter has a profound effect on me, making me more somber and introspective in general, providing moments of redemption, forgiveness, understanding, and beauty