Friday, March 18, 2011

Outside There is the Sun

But here I sit coldly
It is the cold of the uncertain plotting of life
perhaps more so of the unfurling of life
the unsteady gait of final chapters

As if on a distant hillside
The old ones of my life have aligned themselves
Still skirting death and yet
They hold hands and flirt with the darkness on the other side

Inviting the grim mask of those tomorrows to step aside
I hurled myself at the jungle
clearing cutting tossing aside armloads of debris
Cutting a new path a clearing an exposing of living trees

Until my arms burned
The birds assured me there was no lament
no helicopters say the volcano is quiet
It will not last but there will be laughter and tears

Everyone is trying to name the answers
If you look in the back of the book
You will see
No one knows what they are.

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