Waking With the Past
In bubble thought
I wrote by words
of my round-glassy head
and closed my eyes.
To my surprise
I saw a vintage
picture—a cover to a book
I’d closed for years.
To keep my eye
from sprinkling
I let the story unfold
in silent
form
for I fear happy-sad haunting
from my trunk of tears.
tainted
and smeared.
In retro motion
a young-old girl
lay content in May...
Across
sits he.
She looks to him
and asks if she were a flower,
what would she be?
"A rose," said he. "A rose, indeed..."
His throat pretends to choke
and retreats from verse.
he flees from words he
did not mean to spurt.
With one Rose in thought,
away she runs,
‘Neathe dandelions flush with green,
Under skies too perfect to change motion.
clouds so close
she reaches and carries with her
nothing
but the rose
He gave her.
Only passion runs deep within a flower so bold,
only words
I know to speak
are ones which tell me
why we wilt instead of grow?
Greeted by summer trees,
sounding like trumpets as they dream.
Wind pulling back her hair
a glance beyond which she sees;
A truth in love
bound by seeds of faith and passion,
understanding
and need.
side by side
each of the us
remain quiet as if waiting
for the sun to rise.
to break free from chains, beneath earth’s skin
to spread like butter on the plain before us.
Adorned in black sashes and bows,
the fair-whether wind utters an untimely tale,
serenading the drum
cradled in her ear.
“Exhale”, I say.
Let recollections of days
since then,
fade away.
As days now drip from the silver faucet, which cleanse my hands, soul and feet,
I cast reflections out to sea.
From the shore of my bubbled head
the eldest rose, I spy, yet to die;
and
The May I mothered deep inside,
Flashed brightly, gently and briefly.
Never-tattered
never-worn
just smaller in size.
Glassy eyes and goblets of wine, I drink to love and reflections of a man like a month
left behind.
Copyright © Kristen Rohder | Year Posted 2005
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