we are not yet dead
you asked me what the secret was
said I looked like the cat got my tongue
and I remember I never told you
about the three bright eastern bluebirds
from the way you always divided up
your words into discrete little packets
and dropped them like an airlift pilot or bombardier
I puzzled out somehow that
we don't speak the same language
and I kept the place
of the lone little dull-sky girl to myself...
a cold spring frost
carries sounds and sense
like a clear morning bell
and I remember the honeyed skin
warmed in the yellow day sun
the solemn low singing
of patience through hymns
from a rocking chair
red like the breast of the robin
and still no bird nor beast
can come to pluck the thorn
Landi Cruz
Thu 4th Apr 2024 12:56
Thank you for your kind compliment, Stephen--it's nice to read that my words have sparked someone's imagination other than my own.
And, pardon me, David--thanks to you, too. I wasn't in the state of mind required to properly respond last evening...
I've been thinking as I've been putting this together over the past few days that, often, what remains unsaid is much more interesting than what is (have I said that before?). With that in mind, I've no doubt that there are some very dark actors who would be quite proud at the way things are turning out.
Still breathing, though. Just very slowly...