Holding the River in Unquiet Hands

{Aubade for a Softer Sunrise}

.
Shattered, we slow our hearts and let
dawn’s waves wash over, taking with them
our deepest wants and fears, but not
the ability to call them back, or make
them stay gone. Falling moon told me
a story, a trickle of whispered song, a
tale of her longing for other than stone.
Yet she bows for sun and I do, too, and
soon here in all this early light, we let
the petals of worry fall, hold them
loosely with open hands, still but not
silent. Colorless, equal, our feet spill
secrets to sand, promises that hold me.

We must steep this dream deep, otherwise
each new bright day might pull, and kill
it. Am I perhaps the hope? No one told me.

 

We’ve got a new pub tender over at dVerse, the beautiful Amaya, aka Gospel Isosceles, and she bids us to be bold today. Won’t you join us? 

Mine is a golden shovel form poem using this quote:
“Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.”
– Louis MacNeice
from Prayer before Birth

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