I send you these three things: a sparrow, an autumn leaf, a squirrel. You
send the squirrel back.
I send you a chickadee. You tell me: We could hurt a lot of people, if we
gave ourselves license.
You send me license. I send it back, with regret. You return the regret; you
refuse it. I tell you:
We have rain here. It is dreary. The garden is gloomy. Even this room, with
its tokens and paintings,
with its candles, its chandeliers and Buddha's from elsewhere, even this
room, is dim. The cats,
the dogs, the books in their paper bindings -- we all sleep. The prayer
rugs, spread out on the floor,
are dusty and thin. You tell me I walk a dangerous line. I ask if you ever
believed? You refuse
to discuss it. You hold a dying man in your arms. I hold a dying man in my
arms. They waste away
in our arms. I send you a poem, a wide summer sky, a hope for the future.
You keep the poem.
You send me your children, but they slip away. One is drowning now, caught
in the undercurrent.
I send you a book of autographs, of photographs, of words. You send me
silence. I send you a thorn,
pulled from my side. I send you cinnamon, cardamon, and salt. I send you
bitter lemons. The glaciers
are melting, the plains are parched. But still each day I put out seed for
the birds. I save the bits
of stale bread. I wait, I watch, for something. I ask you: What is this? You
tell me: It is what it is.
--
~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com | =^..^=
|