Saturday, September 17, 2016

The Waters In Winter

A Place to Stand
16 September 2016

Beneath the sky, upon the ground,
between green grass and frozen waters,
I am a bed of cold, cold sand.
You scratched the words into the surface:
You must find A Place To Stand.

Always, my feet were on the grass
around the reservoir in springtime.
I made the flowers grow, the leaves green;
I caused the sweet, warm breeze to blow.
Always this has seemed to me
a solid place to rest and weep.

The waters received my tears.
Soft wind blows, my hair a plait
behind me. The sun was warm;
kept the chill of grief at bay.

I dreamed beneath my midnight skies
of dancing stars, among the citrine fireflies.
I'd rest in dreams, not lies. Not lies.
Always, this has seemed to me
the safest place to rest and sleep.

Even here, a chill could creep into my mind,
into my sleep. Between the grass and reservoir,
I'd be a bed of warm, wet sand, the water taking
slowly any words traced there, by any hand.

The thread of cold is constant, day or night,
but springtime is rest, summer is for dancing,
fall a time for honey-sweet reprieve for tired feet.

Always a chill creeps through the grass.
Always I know it comes, and I cling
to all these vestiges of autumn, summer, spring.

Winter, I deny. Winter is a cold, hard eye
avoided. A small rebellion,
now there's nothing left to push against.
Only choice. Only me and my desire
to sleep, dance, rest in warmth of forgetting fires.


If I stand beside the Reservoir in winter,
the grass will crunch beneath my feet,
reminding me of spring and citrine fireflies.
I'll place the cold, hard stone of grief
beneath my feet where rain can't penetrate.

It is frozen.

I'll stand on grief in wintertime.
I'll stand barefoot beneath a sliver moon.
In the dead, chill air, my hair hangs loose.
I'll bow my head, hair falling like a curtain
hiding tears that slowly freeze
before they reach the reservoir—
the reservoir that never runs dry.
They freeze before they fall. I know,
I know they all will make their way
in springtime to the waters.

Beside the waters in winter,
I can still remember green and living things,
but songs as sad and sweet as empty honeycomb
sing softly through the trees.
Carp still swim the depths, but snow begins to fall,
and I don't need them to remember. I know.
Unsleeping memory opens wide
on still green grass, frosted in the evening's glow.

I'll stretch myself beside the frozen waters,
gaze upon capacious midnight skies
and unmoved stars above. The world does not tilt
in wintertime. Grief is foundation enough,
even for my heart's shifting.

Beneath the sky, upon the ground,
between green grass and frozen waters,
I am a bed of cold, cold sand
bearing your inscription.

Winter is my place to stand.

No comments:

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

Site Hits