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Another Horizon In a sequence of sonnets, I become weary of old dreams - dusty images that film the windows as sunlight webs the walls … When away from home, I dream of being home - when home, I dream of being alone on an island scented like tangerines, grapefruits and poems without vengeance . . . The difference between now and summer is not you or me, it isn’t endless poetry. . .this morning it is merely the buds that unfurl on the apple trees outside my front door My traveling mind is wandering, wondering how many times I will notice changes - observe random thoughts with pencil renegades - no doubt, to live on in complete oblivion What do apple trees mean to you or anyone really? I read wavering smoke their meaningless twists and translate the ribbons as signals in illiterate forms I watch subtle movements form another and yet another horizon and remember some details of our last dinner with an urgency to revise the poem of a thousand unknown languages - I’m inclined to notice the warmth of the sun, the white tentacles on tiny leaves and the scent of the blank page of my notebook In transformations of light (over white stones and garden statuary) there is the start; a poem of dozing spiders, webbed in the shadow of the terrace There is no return to Eden, no end to selfish love stories their stages of death and dying as the sun feeds the night A bird labors across the sky in the exile of hieroglyphs and blazing letters Deborah Russell © 2006 (still not sure if it is what i mean to say...)