Can you keep a secret?
I escaped this morning,
sneaking from the house in tiptoes and hushings.
because it’s today
and it’s the only one.
and because of the sun,
whispering in my ear as I lay abed
(Come… Come with me.)
and because of these grey-lined gypsy clouds
wandering the foreign country of the sky.
The wind like a jubilant river,
rushing from the still-white mountains, wild and snow-clad,
down to this grey pavement, littered with
small stones and
the grim, cold remembrances of ice;
laughing in gutters, astonishing stately pines with its impish dancing and
and giddy cavorting in treetops;
pushing at my chest like an insistent child,
(Look! Look about you! See this!)
A man passes me, on the street.
he is clad in mountain gear.
knapsack, and hefting a stout stick.
They are familiar with each other,
he and the stick.
They have been places together.
We nod to each other-
the sole surviving refugees of winter-
and there is an exchange of understanding,
there is my very own joy, battered and determined,
shining out of his face.
With all my wishing, I wish him well.
Because, as it is,
we’re bound for the same place.
And then he is gone, and it’s just Tom and me,
he, doing that thing he calls singing,
which is really just my own blood-beat pulse
in three-quarter time,
spoken back to me in the sweetness of
rusty ball-bearing poems on
black asphalt pages.
The harsh, infinite echo
of the exquisite, raw imperfection of man.
Ahead, the hills are
harrumphing in gruff tones
Atop the same, sits a congress of clouds –
an assemblage of ambassador thunderheads,
and representative mists –
discussing, no doubt,
matters of great import
in the Sky Lands.
And that’s where I’m headed.
I’ll cut across the schoolyard where Maple
hits Mill Creek,
and there’s that stretch of woodland,
and then the hills.
I’ll be back by dinnertime.
Then will I tell you of things…
things that will worry your insides like seeds
pushing and stretching and
leaning to light.
Things like this jewel-bright
icicle, dangling and dripping down these long-fingered
and how, when I pass here again this afternoon,
it will be gone.
Things like this birdsong,
hung, banner-like; waving in
from hidden nests.
Like the thing inside me that is
that is this tadpole, small and brown,
swishing his tail
in his puddle home,
dreaming of the day he will have legs
strong and long
and of the way he will leap,
away and away
into all his vivid, mythical days.
Original content Copyright © 2011 Shawnacy Marie Kiker. All Rights Reserved