October 8, 2012

poem 368 of a poem a day for 012

walking stick

(wearing myself
thin enough
with questions
to slip unseen
past velvet
folded gates
into the womb
of a Goddess)

I keep asking why
who am I
where am I going
why am I
mouthing questions
in the fog
this morning
what do I mean
to myself
let alone you
in the thousands
of ever turning
pages and poems

the words usually form
shape, rhymes or reasons
that come with the turning
of the seasons
within and without
a moment's notice
I pause and wonder
as I sit up
to take stock
of another dream
that I want to deny myself
it seems that while
my red light is always on
I can always find ways
to keep my doors closed
and myself locked inside

the damp matted
curl of leaves
are flattened and whispering
what fluttered used to mean
long shadowing the descent
from mid-Summer's Lammas Moon
gypsy thunder in the distance
calls the mushrooms forth
fairy rings around
astrological gravity
and the lush quiet
of the mosses
widening under the pines
shady approach
of deepening Autumn

down the long lanes
and tree lined roads
that are covered
in how memory scatters
another Robert Frost farm
is rejoicing the gentle hills
and tucked lakes
that feed into the far side
of tomorrow

I can smell
the chimney roars
the songs that bellow
everything that burns
the Harvest past time
they sing for me
to come and be
welcomed home
to stop wanting
an explanation
for what Love is

I throw a few things
upon my back
and kick the leaves
as I shuffle my feet
deepening myself
into the thought
that beneath the snow
I know Winter only kills
the stuff that is supposed
to die, like Sisyphus
and foolish flowered
intent, everything
that no longer
wants to cry
for an answer
to any reason 
I still have
to ask why


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