I woke up thinking of something white — bones, or maybe snow — whites of varying hues. A bone in the snow would stand out. Like a drop of soup on Sunday School clothes. There was the sense, too, of having traveled a great distance — of having been an old man on a narrow high-mountain road, with but an apple and notebook to sustain me. And the notebook was full — of pine needles. I shook them out. What did they mean? Had they written themselves? So it seemed. Or were they musical notes? And the old man was cold. His bare feet were in sandals, his sandals worn out. Such joy upon waking! Alone without hope. No crutch to detain me, nor wisdom, nor truth. A bird on the wing, no north and no south. And then rain — light rain — rain’s light reign. I watched myself melt.
October 19, 2019
Categories: New Poems & Pieces