And why is it only now
with the encroaching comforting midlife belly
and haggard love lines
and soft tolerant resignation
that I see the adolescent longing for company?
This teen who wanted to be known
and heard,
and merged and understood
and now must learn new gratitude
for the flickers
when faint whispers cross the chasm.
That day
when housework seemed the most loving act
of violence,
the best way to channel
creative destruction,
deep yearning restlessness and anger
provoked in a fury of sweeping,
a silent scratching at the pans,
a ripping asunder of bedclothes and the front hall…
the voices kept strident companionship,
carpet of history dusty underfoot,
shining taps of vision revealed
and even briefly washing away the grime.
You can turn your back on the sunrise
and still it grows,
so that with each burden you lift,
not watching,
it will flush more pink into the sky.
And every time you return to the east,
staggering,
to the place where you set your burden down,
the sky has painted a larger canvas
for blue and pink salmon to dance.
This net,
strung in the cold heights,
alone before dawn on the mountain,
just sits.
Or stands or waves in the breeze,
defined by its limitations,
supported by deep branches extending into earth.
Immersed in cold damp cloud,
it does nothing;
no subtle invitation,
no picking and choosing,
no rarefied invocation.
On days when the cold is cold
and the damp is heavily moist,
the passive collector
drips liquid
to thirsty villagers.