The Cacographer

Mesiah

And why shouldn’t I be
why shouldn’t I be, deborah?

You never let me call you debbie,
you remember
never among all the grey green spruces
or the firs
soft like a painter’s brush
across your unwollen
cheek.

I should be, I think,
full of million spined fury.

Those few times,
fragile in remembrance
like porcelain.

Or the snow, deborah
full like feathers and down
sinking through the air
toward your hair
spread across my cheeks

You always said I shouldn’t be
casting you down like porcelain.

And what shouldn’t I say
like fires spitting steam and sparks?

those hills,
spread and bunching
finding tree tops beneath the snow
and finding the listless drifts
piled like pillows against
the pines.

It took hours
you stroking your wool
as I hacked
blissful
felling the only tree.

It took hours
until crashing,
it plummeted through
the ice caked snow
and spewing needles,
watched it fall

posted by OrangeDrink @ 4:57:00 AM