Wednesday, August 22, 2012

ghosts 1-4

from a rust colored attic
floorboards creak
the ghosts waltzing again
his arms in her arms
and the ghasted hollow air
full of the echo
of silent
music
a clandestine waltz
'shaking like a leaf on a tree'
in the fall
and i am restless tonight
'a bug on a fuzzy tree'
the discontentment
of my middle years
too young for nostalgia
but to old for halcyon
what do we call this place
the listening years
in between the wild
and the waltzing
something in 5/4 out of balance
and awkwardly leading
down the path
to the fall
at least the snow is not here yet
and sweatshirt weather
made for a great walk
in the great woods
behind the house
walking stick
and blowing warm air
into the cavernous icy hands
stiff from labor
and cracking
at the edges from this
dry cold
it seems
everything ages
if you leave it long enough
so i will retire
to my workshop
to hear the long smooth
drawn out knock
of the handplane
on the edge of cherry
a native wood
hewn from the rough
woodchips all around
the work hands
my corner against
the coldness of the world
and it all shapes up
if you work it long enough
and the soul that soaks in
is greater than what
the modern machines
make
i will leave this behind
as a gravetone epiteth
i was here
i was here
i was here for just a while....


No comments:

Post a Comment