Sarah

Sarah Apr 2016

Here is where
I resign.

Almost to
the end of the
path who's
nudging nature's
lullaby

I choose my
resignation
submitting,
I'll accept
what comes:

Poison oak or
a bed of Crocus
covering the
untouched floor
who bears the
weight of me

Here's my resignation,
love,
beneath Cascadian trees.

Sarah Apr 2016

birdsong & ringing

How beautiful are you
that strings are
pressed by your
bony fingers
and a sound
becomes a
song-
your lanky arms, a
carriage
formed for pushing,
pulling a choir
out of silent
moments, sitting in a
quiet room-
there's something tragic about
you.

If you're to
hold onto
anything other than
me,
let it be
birdsong and
ringing.

Sarah Apr 2016

Wisteria.

I forgot to tell you
that I'm not happy-
today when I was
walking and
an hour in, my
neck was
sweating in the
overcast heat,

I saw a patch of
wisteria, painted
with a stirring
of bees- I thought about
the silence
and the blanket of
sadness
and how I
cannot share with you a
quiet agony
of stagnation.

Sarah Apr 2016

In Love.

In sheets and in
quiet,
5 a.m.
bird song and
linen-
standing in
front of a pan
on the stove-
you love me

in opening car doors
and peeking in
and filling up
thermoses with
steaming coffee-
chilly April
mornings,
you love me

In the touch of a hand,
cold, red fingers
itching from
the morning freeze
and turning up
the heater, touching
your hair and
hearing you
breathing-
you love me

you love me and I love you.

Sarah Apr 2016

Violets

So here I am,
deep in violet
fallen into the nucleus
of a flower,
what
have you done
to me
where
I am
possessed by
the subtle stirring of
leaves when a car
drives by,
the wind sways the blade like you
rouse
me

I can't even walk past
a garden of violets
without wishing you
were there to
see it.

Sarah Apr 2016

North.

Once again I've been
paralyzed by
birdsong
a whisper of
a quiet
kingdom,
choir in place
of a cornet

We're back from
winter
and we want
everyone to
know it.

Sarah Apr 2016

The Chain.

I've never seen somebody reach
like you
always stretching for the next
and
hovering on every
cliff
you
uncover

but back you always go
to a
studio
to a place where hand meets
wood and wood meets
string and string
shakes and shakes
the moment after
anticipation

My god,
your ankle is chained to
a performance hall, but your body
is itching to go
and if I
could
if I could
I'd lengthen the cord
elongate the shackles
draw out the prison fence where
you are held
by
wanting to be devoted and
wanting to fly
away