What does it want?
There is a part of me that can’t shake
sadness;
that hears the rise of the mourning dove
as fall;
that substitutes for throat
but will not be slaked–
What does it want– this ache?
For everything that’s been
to have been
all right.
To lay down upon a lap
as if it were a head
that might be stroked.
To not be a head
that is thinking, thinking,
but a body of that water
that laps gently
and doesn’t churn.
And to have you, my sometimes world,
hold me
in earthen arms.
In the reeds that grow about us,
red-winged blackbirds nest;
just above, swallows swallow.
****************
Poem for open link platform on Real Toads (http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com)
Drawing is mine. It’s a bit more complicated than I’d like, ha.
ManicDDaily 
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