—THE MORE YOU REMEMBER, THE MORE YOU’RE LOST

 

 

My Unscripted

 

I am looking at a lake of bright white light,

the page as wide as an ocean,

unlined and endless

waiting for ink and words,

sonnets or songs,

maybe a pretty poem about possibilities

or perhaps something stormy

where the outcome remains in peril,

one hand reaching out for hand

in desperation.

 

I am not made of marble or stone.

In fact, I’ve been bleeding pools

so as to dip a brush

and write this in red

in order that you might know the color of

my heart.

 

Under an elm you

ponder the past and

paginate your future so thoughtfully.

I am not a fool

and yet I understand now that the stars do not lie

the moon does not deceive,

and it’s the light at the end of time

that wants us to cross together,

holding hands,

smiling over the tops of any scars

that might have hindered

our getting there,

two as one separated by nothing.