Sanctuary

I drove to the border of cloud and watched ghosts dance about its edge like waves on the sand. From here I can see the land bathed in thunderous sunlight; even from the shadows I can see that the world is filled with such beauty. There is a gossamer veil of mist, impermeable and unforgiving, that separates our world from theirs. Toeing the end of shadow, I can sometimes make out the holes in the sky where what lies behind pierces through – stars. I’ve tried to paint them, but white is hard to come by in this land between the highways.

(From the base of the clouds where the ghosts spy, we are probably only a contour cutting its way through mountainside and ocean shore, unalarmed and indiscriminating.) I asked the ghosts where white tones are found, and they indicated the cemetery. But, as I said, that veil is impenetrable; thus I stand in a meadow drenched in hues of grey so that the highway is indistinguishable from the patch of Queen Anne’s Lace to my right. I stand looking into a sun meant for a painter of white. I stand looking into a sun that whispers lines I don’t understand.

Barefoot

There are still bare branches outside the window;

browned, winter-kissed bramble shivers

lifelessly in the spring breeze,

smelling of rain and thunder.

The air rumors of life, but I’ve

yet to see it beneath these grey skies.

 

I don’t know how one goes about

starting these adventures.

Are my bare feet enough?

 

Sometimes, I still try to talk to the birds.

When we share the grass mattress I feel close enough,

so I chirp like a child that doesn’t know better.

A child can never know that they won’t talk back.

 

This morning the birds flew back into the grey skies.

I was left bare-footed beneath bare branches

that let the rain flood me and the browned bramble.