March 15, 2013

she pressed her fingers to my lips...

 ‘Forest Cemetery’ by Ivan Shishkin 1893



an offer around Dawn

we would spend
the early morning
collecting stones
and little bits of shiny paper
strewn along each side
of the well worn path
trees, here were not nearly ancient
by any means, though some
were a few hundred years old
thick with grape vine bramble
and a heavy sway to their branches
they did feel old enough
so that when you were near them
you felt like crows before the caw
tucking things, finding yourself
where you wanted to be for the day

the Sun had just started
to climb the eastern horizon
over roof and tongue stretches
of asphalt, numbered signs
poked the ground alongside them
cars ignored us as we ambled
past old markers of a cemetery
in the distance
it was as if these stones
from the 1700’s
were part of some spiritual constant
some cycle erosion
beneath wide pine boughs
in the middle of the peats,
mosses, lichens
and heavy pet of grasses

today I decided how full
my pockets could get
would they be wet
like my shoes
weighing the offer
with each step
as my thoughts did
would it be okay
would I find myself here
without need of masks
or wit or what the world
spit out at me
could I
would I dare
let someone in

she had said to me
let’s walk in the morning
and fuck our way to noon
I’ll make the tea
you just make me happy
and somewhere in between
satisfaction will find both of us
and once we started walking
I knew the Dawn was not going back
to sleep and neither was I

EJR © 

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