jueves, 13 de diciembre de 2007


In the lamp light reflected
from the window's edge
I am merely a shadow
a blue silhouetted shade
darkness against the
transparencies of this room, blue
meeting that world outside, green
ink stained dawn covered
lushness of summer leaves bear
the dark coming of autumn
steel mist soaked skies will warm
to thick summer day
but now in blue green stillness
of this turning into day
I see that we are simply shadows
cast on the inner surface of
a window somewhere the light
within the room exposes that
arbitrary place the shape of
my soul against green tree leaves
moving in the wind and catching
first rays of light on dew circles
which light is mine?
That lamp illuminates the room
blue walls painting of myself
but I am between the lamp and
glass so must remain in shadow
closer to the light I'd see the
features of my face further from
reflected edge the window to
outside and do not move to light
or world, like the shadowy
vagueness of my silhouetted shape
in tree leaves, instead
beyond garden walls, grey sky
near window's edge, I am a piece
of tree leaves or wish to be so
thick and full coming in spring, coloring
in fall returning again again in
endless repetition while house and
garden fade painted walls peel away window mist over lamp
dims, I would be that endlessness
in return for oneness
forgetting my face and name
for something more permanent
a piece of tree leaves
a place in daily light plays
or the shimmering (that) wind brings
to summer tree branches
something endless and evanescent
true music (just) a lilt of leaves
something real

As the dawn's hesitant sky
relents to full sun of day and
ardent ink soaked leaves pale
my shadow's lost its potent
blue tones
There at window's edge
I wait, watching the transforming
light: not the lamp within which sits
still feigned brilliance dead in
steadiness but from the sky
outside moving off, up, changing
everything changing for at least
the day
It is fierce the whitish blue on
rain cleaned cloudless sky
truth changes too
so yellowing stillness of bedside
table lamps are comforting
but false even with my face
close up the light is wrong
and would not, could not ever
summon birds to sing the way
the morning sky does every day
and cicadas to clicking

I would be that endlessness
in return for oneness
a piece of tree leaves
a place in daily light plays
true music
something real


a poem from Susan and Lily (her daughter), wrote the day before her daughter Lily was born.

Thanks Susan!!

No hay comentarios: