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.

Family History

24 August 2016, 12:45 am

It happens slowly,

all at once.

Those of them who know the story

leave those of us who know less.

We who know little

begin to pass on the narrative

to those who know nothing.

We deemed it fitting,

they were so young.

What would we tell them of the hurts,

of the anger,

resentment?

I find the story necessary,

now those who were there when I wasn't

begin to fall silent. Few now can tell me

what I don't already know.

Few now can give me what I never wanted,

what now I can't live without--

the mortar to hold together

the gross, obvious bricks I couldn't bury,

the wounds that never healed.

There are pains which cannot be relieved
by therapy, by understanding,

by the act of naming.

They must be lanced and drained,

but the tools for such grow few

as time dances away from us,

as do the Ones Who Know,

the Ones Who Might Bring Understanding,

the Ones Who Are No Longer.

Moving On II

The quality of the doors has changed;
of the walls, the floors, the light.
This room was a different place before
we packed up her precious things.
She had possessed it, made it move,
and now it lies still, not dead, but waiting.
No longer hers, it longs, as does she,
for what comes next.