You asked for a poem and suddenly
my mind is empty
I’ve been trying to do for years–
I ought to at least
thank you for that.
(Yes, I see the tall rocks pushing up from the ground
against the backdrop of snow
and spring, buried beneath the cold foot of winter.
Yes, I remember the same hills in early summer,
nodding in wild flowers
swelling with colourful suggestion.
Alongside these images
are all the walks
we have not taken,
all the conversations left on the wind
all the secrets embedded in the pale skin of the wakeful moon.
I am distracted.)
Summer will come, my pen,
Fall will surely sweep away the ideas of
This, Not This.
Winter will come over a curved hill
and nestle in
against the warm breast of October,
against the murmuring voices
and I, who have been silent
will be drowning you in words,
open places for your
images to appear.
© 2005 lekshe. Used by permission.