Sometimes I find her
so heavy with thought,
She can’t remember
where she put it,
the thing,
the one thing she ought to bring
to the houses, with the people
who call her—
“Friend!”
A parting gift,
for the folks who stayed.
She leaves it with them
to be polite.
Her thinking exists
without parameters,
yet surely spillage is imminent,
in the milk-white basin
she calls a head.
Words leak through
the cracks of her mind
made by the thumping thoughts,
bumping off the brain.
Frothing, like hot cream,
in a pot of rust, the thrust
comes not from within,
but without.
Disjointed statements stick out there
like shrapnel bones, these
stanzas of her broken corpus.
Her skin, thin, cannot keep
the heart within.
The beat is left elsewhere,
and cannot sing of love this time.
The stumbler admits
to the crime she commits.
To the dishonesty
of hiding signatures
amid such letters as these
words written, smitten
with their own sound, Not to the people,
not to the people,
but to the One
who will hear her,
in the end,
just as He has heard her
in the beginning.
These words are like
those winged things,
falling headfirst from heaven.
Their feathers breaking away,
untethered promises,
and flooding down
from the clouded sky.
Quills pepper the Earth’s shell
and pinch the weeds underfoot.
She plods upon the lucky charms
of childhood, her answer still hidden
In the shade of the trees
cloistering her meditations.
Sometimes I find her,
more often than not,
appearing on paths
where many are lost.
Photo Credit: simpleinsomnia Flickr via Compfight cc
