Too Late.
See,
my hands are very small:
I
use the backs of them
To
rub my eyes.
I
didn't realise I would grow
And
have to become someone,
Divided
and rejected.
All
these whirling minds
As
sharp as stars,
But
out of sync.
I
couldn't open my book
Until
too old and nearly gone,
Now,
I begin to read.
See,
my wormy thumbs
Have
revealed two leaves
For
me to contemplate.
The
first tells of the disconnect
Between
rocks and moon,
I
feel heavy with guilt.
The
second has coloured in my heart:
I
recognise it,
My
face burns.
The Search
What
are you doing down there?
I'm
looking for something.
Is
it lost?
It
is not yet found.
Might
I help you search the quiet?
Yes,
please close your eyes.
How
long will it take?
We
cannot know.
Are
you sure that it is missing?
There
is a space abandoned.
Will
you try somewhere else?
Here
may be very close.
You
seem to hesitate.
There
is a faint aroma of honeysuckle.
What
is that to you?
A
connection.
Shall
I now close the door?
My
bones are secure beneath the silt.
Then
I will leave.
Yes,
thank you, and thank them all.
Year 1
Curling
fern toes
Cheery
star fingers
Without
agenda
Signing
to the world.
Insistent
helplessness
Secure
that neither
Cry
nor fault
Will
deter protection.
And
who would betray that trust
When
reward offers no object?
Not
the red eyed mother,
Up
with the moon.