in the dogwood trees
april 29th 2023 5:14 pm ︎
when i learn of your body reaching shore,
a sharp tug spills the air in my heart backwards
and the channel lurches away from the ocean.
there’s very little to do-
when oxygen thins,
time slows.
i find myself compelled to float in stilted endeavor-
weighing options until they graze softly on the streams sediment,
allowing my emotions to stall my row;
behaving not upon an instinct, but upon a call
all until the freshness behind my ears
reminds me of the pass of the wind through the dogwood trees
sewn along the riverbank-
all until the dampness on the nape of my neck
lets me know for sure:
the pass of the wind-
it’s gone in a second.
remembering this measure,
its force sings to me;
its moment
is what sows lapses into time.
i begin to row again-
and i think about
how each wind current is an instance
looking to be enshrined in the heart of whoever bears witness to it
each wind current-
a small life
with a human condition
beneath each branch of flowered dogwood, torn space rumbles
and the black birds within and among feel it
just as i feel the creak in my home’s floorboards;
borrowed and mine are the bark and its syrup
where scripted and mime, a life’s motions till on
the birds know this,
but i must stop once again when the breeze picks up
to write it down.
my lost rhyme encased in a long fading ink,
i pick up my oars once i’ve stenciled my picture-
yet still crystal clear words filtered through the wood blossoms
echo in my head;
gentle, dancing pink figures.
my mind’s pen swims
deep in the dogwood trees,
my silent row humbles-
caught in their shake,
and i learn to pull forward
and back into time
like black birds who sing upon stirring awake.
when i learn of your body reaching shore,
a sharp tug spills the air in my heart backwards
and the channel lurches away from the ocean.
there’s very little to do-
when oxygen thins,
time slows.
i find myself compelled to float in stilted endeavor-
weighing options until they graze softly on the streams sediment,
allowing my emotions to stall my row;
behaving not upon an instinct, but upon a call
all until the freshness behind my ears
reminds me of the pass of the wind through the dogwood trees
sewn along the riverbank-
all until the dampness on the nape of my neck
lets me know for sure:
the pass of the wind-
it’s gone in a second.
remembering this measure,
its force sings to me;
its moment
is what sows lapses into time.
i begin to row again-
and i think about
how each wind current is an instance
looking to be enshrined in the heart of whoever bears witness to it
each wind current-
a small life
with a human condition
beneath each branch of flowered dogwood, torn space rumbles
and the black birds within and among feel it
just as i feel the creak in my home’s floorboards;
borrowed and mine are the bark and its syrup
where scripted and mime, a life’s motions till on
the birds know this,
but i must stop once again when the breeze picks up
to write it down.
my lost rhyme encased in a long fading ink,
i pick up my oars once i’ve stenciled my picture-
yet still crystal clear words filtered through the wood blossoms
echo in my head;
gentle, dancing pink figures.
my mind’s pen swims
deep in the dogwood trees,
my silent row humbles-
caught in their shake,
and i learn to pull forward
and back into time
like black birds who sing upon stirring awake.