https://reachingjoythree.wordpress.com/
Let’s not listen to any music,
let the lyrics come on their own.
Open the door.
Let the birds sing.
The ground sweat.
You do not always have to be
the dancer, alone in the corner,
swaying under hanging plants
and borrowed words.
Do the birds sing
of lost lovers?
Do the trees dream of what could be
as they flow?
I ache for you,
even as life spins round
before me —
they cannot replace a slow love.
…
Am I some fool
for longing for you, still?
I am an animal.
No need to feel foolish for that —
I live how I act.
Shakespeare wrote poems
wrote fools
in isolation,
listened to birds sing
for inspiration,
as companion.
Does the love I mold in my hands
have potential to turn into a pot, a decorative vase
to place up on the mantel?
Or will it melt under its own weight?
The birds do not need social media.
They have wings.
The trees do not sit in bed till noon.
They have flowers,
growing from their sides.
The ground holds up my mind,
and still your love feels so light to me–
it can escape even a bird’s lips, if not your own.
…
I crave a slow love
who will dance with me,
who will clean the dishes as I dry,
pop bubbles,
look trouble in the eye.
I crave a slow love
who will see the creases
and know the book is not broken,
life itself is connected yet uneven
like a sweater,
like a vase,
like a tango that dips me down,
spins me around,
and smiles, easy.
I go outside only in my dreams, now–
let you come to me.
And yet you’re still a mystery,
slow to start
for a woman who knows quick
New York phrases and subtle gazes
from side to side,
knows the birds never die
when we stay in and rest.
Come, sit.
Listen to their song.
And hum, slow.
I wish everyone health and safety during this time. Be patient. Play your part: stay inside when you can. Know it will pass.
March 28th, 2020
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