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.
