Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Sand

I could write your name
in hieroglyphics within the dusting
of cricket sand on the floor,
let my fingertips become the paintbrush
creating hope in the moment's artistic design.
Let runes become symbols, become ancient
and changing as clouds protecting the evening
sun, let it become visual improv with
maybe a bit of the celtic thrown in
for good measure.
Cricket sand on the floor...
Would I eventually find some refracted
part of myself desparately competing
somehow for the you that isn't there,
the one that is missing inside your shell?
If I could come home to you,
love you the way I need to - not ever be afraid
of this inertia that happens when both of us
are unmotivated by fear.

1 comment:

erin said...

There is something so compelling about this piece.