What hope have I for a blue bird? A summer rose to bend upward and bloom within me? When morrowtime is upending, a bud imploding down, a shining, here a wonder folds in and so unfolds out, as wind in an umbrella, dances just that.
When beckoning soft sinners we must keep off our hats. When entering devil-may-care chambers we must leaves our muddied boots on the mat.
I once saw a doorway in a meadow, but as they say, believe half of what you see, and none of what you hear. So it is a half memory. A glass of water half full of air.
Winterwords are hard, as iron and stone. Should the spring ever fall into winter it would never crawl out again. So the cold leaves the light. Light, is a delicate thing. Winter lives alone.
However much the night wants to give is how much you will get. Do not expect, yet, there is no reason for doubt. When the moon rises, she’s there for you. There for the dreams, the hopes, the cries and the sorrows; there isn’t a tide she places above, not a waxing nor waning she’s thinking of. It is only you that she glistening for. Brimming with a need to devour you, as a cloak does. As a womb, rebirths you. She’s a woman.
Terrible needs rule us. Procreation, power, control.
What hope have I, for a blue bird?—when I can not even sort out the churning and cramps of my own soul. I think I am a man, at heart.
I whisper, in the night.