Shadows slide along

the tree line in the evening:


the wood gatherers.

The world
turned
on its end

then
spun
backwards

as if it were
a globe
on a wooden stand
and axis

pray for me
as I pray for a gentle
rain

that will water
and make green

trees
fields and meadows

Whit Howland © 2020

I would
escape, not know better
and run off, maybe scared
without a street cat helping me
but free

I would
go straight for my dreams
the smells that I can't reach
stroll through hedges and gardens
I'll never forget it

Would it
have happened that way
and do you want that too
or is attention enough
when you meow

Entertain me, Caress me
or are you asking: Comfort me
you just have no idea
what prison is
set me free

I pick up a pen-
And set it down again.
This calling of writing has
Its own friction,
Pulling me back-

Into my own retreat.

Fear is a headline
a casting shadow
a waiting room
a cancer
a culture
a color

It is suddenly knowing
or never knowing at all

Fear is the hanging silence
the falling voice

It is a darkroom
where negatives
are developed

Fear is something
about your eyes:
wink?
blink?
pink!

It is always having to say
you're sorry

Fear is what comes
after a sentence
and before a final meal

It is opening the mail
It is waving goodbye

Still water
resting
at the
bottom
of a
Pacific ocean
tide
pool,

reflections
of you
in my
mind
in the
Sunday
morning
light.

sometimes
I can imagine
I hear you
laughter
carried in
harmony
to me
on a
a salt-kissed
circling
wind.

and I
sit for
a moment
and smile.

I always
smile.

it is
a giving
thing that
you do.

your gentle
manner
of truth
and innocence.

I can always
feel it
there in
you eyes...

you are


where
good  poets
go to
die.

You silence the crowd like a spoken poem
Well, you are as holy
That you could be a pilgrim's hat
You are as pretty as a pillow
Like a patient stretched under the light
You are as pure as rage

life lines window sills
listener of whispered words
light lays on the leaves