poem: untitled 11a

Oh you creatures of endless hope
who wear but do not soften
even when faced with days limned by fire,
cracking open, fearful, like fallen jars,
the spoiled promise of preserves vouchsafed
by fruitful seasons that once walked broad and mild
now made over in dust and withered cane,
even when stretched taught and made to stand ready,
guard the gate
or sit with thimbles, in the night,
pricking needles, pricking thumbs.

Vast, dim bricks of wayward thought,
you will find no great shelter there,
only things that grow there, dark and sweet
which may be crushed and mixed,
I know their portions well.
And this remedy I therefore make,
a kind of soft reprieve,
might let you love me more-- enough,
might let us find our peace.
We raise our hands towards the soft breath
that settles, drifting
from the woods of encroaching dream,
and finding comfort there, hold fast
as useful voices greet the dawn.