Colossians 5:18

 

Climbing down from

the watch tower of my mind,

lasso looped round my shoulder

for pulling down the moon,

I catch sight of promontory

rose-tinged clouds

populating the sky

outside the window;

a delicate, natural light

in contrast to

the blood curdled blues

radiating from the tv screen,

aglow, yet unable to enthrall.

 

My cat,

having sat in the dark

for who knows how long

staring into a space

few of us will ever

have reason to enter

sits fixated (as is her way)

on everything and nothing

at the same time.

 

It dawns on me

in this single moment

that every minute is

as numbered

as a holy verse,

yet we

take no notice,

even when each minute

 unfurls easiest by

our getting out

of its way;

a tick

without need

of a tock.

 

At 5:18

someone’s water breaks

to pour from a mouth

like a stone fountain.

The flowers

(outside where they once belonged)

rise up an unruly crowd

freed from their pots

to wriggle ecstatically,

roiled by an unseen wind

only to smash

the glass panes

and abruptly enter

my home!

A congestion of green

encircles the television

bent on strangling it from behind.

Tendrils thick with thorns

head straight for the voice boxes

snuffing out their speechifying

mid-sentence

as the pretty faces

choke and flame out

bursting in close-ups

like cherry tomatoes

under a broiler;

all for the crime of

having refused to give

us back to ourselves.

 

In the real world

the weak are born

in the wee hours,

breach babies

refusing to suckle

while the rest

lie recovering

from yet another

surprise assault.

Someone is heard shouting:

I want to see my baby!

fearing the worst.

 

What if life is unfolding

simply to push us out

like a sliver?

How is that beauty?

Or is it?

 

We enter the nurseries

in search of our own face.

telling ourselves not to panic

 if there’s no smile.

Life is life

no matter what color,

or shape of leaf,

piston or stamen.

Do its tiny fingers

comprise a hand?

Twice?

Does it have a mouth

for wailing, singing,

or both?

 

There you are.

There there.

We press our ear to your heart

listening for its gentle morse

like a drumbeat in the distance

dictating the rest of

all our lives.

 

9/10/23