Feb 12

Ley lines are lifted out of my eyes upon
the horizon, stop signs and parked cars,
meaningful leaves, and the endless grey sky,
violet at its constant edgeless. Last year
we were this time in snow
covered morning in Valentine's
Week, and now the rain upon sand
Covered bough, I hold up. The driftwood
this morning, where was it yesterday?
What does it have to say
of its journey to this day?
Dry, and lighter for the passage.

At the sea, the snakes made a bed to see.
To make the river they would ride to see,
ride as a creek, emerging
the termites eat to see.
To seasons all passing in driftwood seen.
This is the scene at a quiet sea.

I was that darkness in the unlit beach,
Not illuminated by the sunless morning,
missing the vitamins or a warm gaze,
where was your body in the scene setting,
where was your shift, where was your eye,
the angle of your arm, the direction of patterns
and flowers embroidered?
Somewhere smiling I hope, looking away
in thought as you do, your voice quiet
and then in leading vowel before it
spills some carefully selected phrase.
But that's my mind lost in yesteryear,
distortions of a growing yesterday,
imaginations to hope I was more
than mere acquaintance, slightly
sighted but best forgotten.
A light being made known, delight
sighted, became a modest affront.
Affection offended, as is.
Is memory held in the mind,
or do the neurons of a heart
ask a question each morning?

From where comes this heat?