alive

In seek of sorrow

are those of barren land.

Dry fire having leveled the fields,

only sadness would soothe

the smoldering ash.

Too great to think

happiness could water from above

Just enough to feel anything,

some thing,

amongst the ravaged crops.

The rustle of dead wheat

sounds sweeter than silence.

This burn, a necessity for each life.

And when winter turns,

solid stone white to melted pine,

the work begins.

Plowing and planting,

starting anew,

these are the seasons

that cultivate being

alive.

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sacred land

I stepped away

when desire began to fade.

Drained of the burn

that used to scorch me,

singeing my insides,

spurring my need to go,

to create wind

that fueled

the living fire inside.

When the spark fell silent,

with no amount of stirring air

rising flames from ashes,

I knew it was time to rest.

Allow the embers

to grow cold within their ebony coals.

In time, I drew heat from my heart,

a searing spirit so strong

it could ignite

icy cinders in the arctic.

I reached inward to the blaze,

found the flame,

and ignited kindling.

A new start to the pyre

rebuilt on my own

sacred land.

open

what do you do with open endings?

do you seal them with melting wax

pressed firm and marked closed

with branded meld?

or

origami the edge

in decorative closure

easily unfolded in case time’s

sundial illuminates more opportunity?

or

leave it untouched

as live edged, unlicked enclosure

easily entered and altered

as an open wound

unwilling to heal?

whatever you do,

open,

closed,

no matter how you treat it

it is

and always will be

an ending.

spool

whispered to sleeping robins

were all the things left unsaid.

questions and answers

of earth pulled out from under me

and swept under braided rag rug.

poems still buried

under layers of once was

or could have been,

but not yet executed to the rise of day.

I poked bruises on my heart

when I continued to read

those words into tomorrows,

tomorrows of my yesterdays

in words wrote for me,

but left in someone else’s mailbox.

I stood and stared,

frozen in movement,

unable to escape the sight

or unwilling to break from

my only remaining spool

to you