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It has happened again
While I'm not looking...
Snow drops and crocuses
tumbling into tulips and azaleas
The slow muted understory of color on the snow
Traipsing toward the waking sun
that herald robin
V of the geese
ever-pointing the direction
out of darkness
into life

...to reach the crescendo, yet again
Leave behind the bud ~
exquisite ~ Hope
of mere possibility
of dew jewels scattered in the green

And never grow tired of this procession

to love life
to love life

Love ~
Inexpressible

Love inaccessibly fragile
fool of a child
we always long to be
Love ripped apart at the V
A ball of blue fell from the sky
to indifferent grass

I fly into panic
along with Henny Penny
trying to save it
Because I've always known

she wasn't crazy
Henny Penny, Ducky Lucky, Turkey Lurky... and the gang... remembering that awful recording of that story from my childhood.  Always hated it.  Not much of a poem.
I think about you...
Route 84
How many times we traveled
to get home

...by the side of the road
that winter day
fumbling with your phones
as we hold one
to my father's ear
So he could hear
Good-byes and Love yous
in your voices
too far away....
to drive
in time

for one last...
your voices
in his ear...his mind
Cell phones are not all bad.  Father's Day thought
.
Someone is waiting behind an unlocked door,
peek around the frame and tell me what you saw.
I am a little bit too scared to take a look,
like turning a page in an old horror book.

You see it may be someone who likes me
and that is dangerous for stability.
The hands are motionless on a timeless clock,
it would be easier if they would just knock.

In theory there is nothing I want more
than someone waiting behind an unlocked door.
I've rehearsed this scene so many times before,
but here and now there is a storm at my core.

It ties up the insides like thick knotted hair,
the thought, the fear, that there is nobody there.
So the man in the corner whom most ignore
has someone waiting behind an unlocked door.

But the uncertainty has its own high cost,
as the door locks shut and the moment is lost.

© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
.
.
Tomorrow.

Tomorrow it will be better.

You'll see.

You'll see.


© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
.
.
Poems are plush curtains,
of words,
pulled together
to hide the world
from the raw emotion
that flows
out of a writer
casting pearls.



© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
.
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