Some Times
In moments when the blue breaks
into brightness, then to black,
the shades that crowd the farthest shore
no longer will stand back.
They reach in willow whisper,
grasp in spilled-ink din,
tug against my hold on you
pulling me to them.
It’s none of it ill-meaning,
this grip that cuts joy neat,
no more than blows of northern wind
do, conscious, wish to beat–
until at last receding,
calming as a sea;
they let return cerulean
with breakers far and lee
and you and me, we ride waves cupped
like Mona Lisa smiles,
filling palms with re-joined blue
that fills all cracks this while.
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Draft Poem 7 for April National Poetry Month. I will link this to Real Toads Open Platform tomorrow (Tuesday) hosted by Marian. (I’ve been a bit ahead of the game but have some trying days ahead so who knows? Ha!)
Pic is unedited; all rights reserved.
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