I weep for myself
till it becomes trivial
and I forget to yearn.
The tears are lost
beneath the soil
and I disappear again.
Hidden beneath the basket,
waiting for doing.
There are lists to prepare.
The pot is simmering
and I waxed the floors.
Whispered and hushed
telling the stories of your dark garden.
You describe, quietly, that dim paradise.
Each word limns the arms of trees,
curve of path and gate.
Your mouth, round and bright,
light so clear and precise,
that I am retold in that moment.
I lose sight of the sun
as I dwell
in silence
on the shore and envy you.
You in pain. You in confusion.
Expedience is a thief.
You ask what I would say
but serenity has dulled my blade.
You ask my bones
and I cry voicelessly.
Each tear, a longing
entombed alive before birth.
Oceans accumulating, press upward
groans and tearing of shrouds.
I fear the ancient and terrible fount;
that between one grain and the next,
it will plunge to the surface and rewrite everything.
Copyright 2017, Wendy Hunt