Copper Symphony

A candle shines through the doorway. My fingers still hold a smoldering wick, burning my skin like a glove. “I am home,” I say, to no one in particular – maybe the bricks need to hear it. My shadow dances opposite the flame across their mason-faces. I am a mirror to the naked world.

Above my head, behind me, there is a window. Against it beats rain softly, caressing the glass and whispering of colder weather. It is still in this room, where the candle twists. The music has stopped. My piano lies dormant and expectant. I do not think sound is necessary, here.

Flame: incessant and full of mirth. It spreads beneath the carpet and behind the walls. My body feels no heat, but the candle I see bows and rises excitedly. The air changes; charged. If I were a storm, I would have lightning for arms. Rise. Stand. My feet glow with electricity. I cannot tell you whether it is my hands or the tongues of flame that bring the piano to life, but there is music with the laughter of a fiddle.

An island forms outside the window, as the rain builds up worlds on the pavement. What wonders there are in autumn! My fingers rest; my reflection stands to make amends while I admire the candle in the other room.

Mural on the Bedroom Ceiling

I’ve dreamt four nights of children,

but the long days teach me to give up

dreams of children, so these three nights

I’ve lain awake.

 

But what am I?

I am a hand resting on a doorknob.

I leave behind traces of oil on the locks I’ve tried

and left behind.

But what am I?

 

I am nothing compared to a child.

Look into my swollen grey eyes and tell me,

 

is there more substance there than in

cheeks rosied with laughter, the face of a baby girl?

Or will that miniscule finger that blesses my face

with its touch one day reach out for locks I’ve tried

and find them broken by a father’s hands?

 

The ceiling is unchanging these three nights, but

on it my eyes have painted scripture and promises;

laughter from lips resembling mine.

The Boreal Wilderness of a Content Heart

We must be further North than we thought.

Where, by the maps haunted with sea serpents,

living, exulting, dancing, tremulous mysteries

hold back laughter beneath every leaf.

 

Like a child playing hide and seek,

biting her tongue not to squeal with delight.

 

The cold grips every nerve in every limb with every movement.

The cold reminds us how gloriously alive we are.

The steam of our breath, twisting in an aerial ballet

leaping deeper, and deeper into this forest,

both new and joyously familiar.

Like a lullaby in old age.

 

The blues and grays of the mist, interrupted.

Swords of sunshine lunging from sky to untrodden earth.

Every leaf, swallow’s song and molecule of mist

 

is alive with silent, jovial anticipation.

Like the last breath before a dive into frigid waters.