Monday, 28 November 2011
On Sunday morning all drops quiet:
sun turns up and rain ‘pit-pats’ to a stop.
Among such calm - silence lands
hard enough to feel another day.
Outside, gardens light, flags drop.
Autumn time is harvest time;
fruit and flowers, muddy roots
but I can move – my hand wags -
every finger independent,
coupled - separated - whole.
Now a thirst of longing - to be ‘Me’
and a deeper aching - to connect
(like rosy-cheeks of any early true love)
sweet and hurting, stirring up to climb
into my body, out, and find the fire.