Sestina for the Spring
I stumbled across this in a notebook this morning and edited it a little bit. I think I scribbled it down in March or April. It seems like a nice follow-up for this one http://sleepinthewoods.livejournal.com/9126.html from last summer.
Sestina for the Spring
As the sun cracks through, I’m more aware of you,
Bare shoulders, staring out the window,
How your hair gets tussled in the wind.
Your road maps, tucked in a dusty drawer,
Still within reach. You brush my hand.
“What are your plans today” I ask. You look away.
We talk about, maybe next year, running away.
“It’s coming quickly,” I say, and I stare at you.
You smile, thoughts drifting aimlessly past my hand.
The cat - ours, I suppose - is scratching at the window.
You search for her toy, lost in the drawer
Hidden from her teeth, which destroy even the wind.
Our traveling lives shift with the wind -
We pull closer as time blows away.
To Time, the Artist, I beg to be the Draw-er.
Am I growing old too fast for you
I ask to no one, who is standing at the window.
From behind, our cat’s jaw closes on my hand.
Time itself has left no marks on my hand,
Like a pallet wiped clean by the wind
Blowing in gusts through time’s open window.
Are my chances slipping further away?
Will I be here later, and will you?
I tuck my worries into worry’s drawer.
I whittle years onto the dusty drawer,
A 24th mark carved by a steady hand
Whittling into the night, sawdust blowing in the wind.
One piece of life, the one that curls, I send to you
In whatever direction it dances from your window.
Summer comes quickly to carry it away.
Summer come quicker, carry the cold away!
I’ve scribbled on a note you find in the drawer.
I laugh, or try to, as it falls out the window.
You stare at the ink stands on my hand.
I flounder, thoughts falling off my hands onto you.
Time, I say, blows in words through the wind.
You are the window and I am the wind, you read slowly.
Irreversible, my hand-made truth falls away from its drawer.
Sestina for the Spring
As the sun cracks through, I’m more aware of you,
Bare shoulders, staring out the window,
How your hair gets tussled in the wind.
Your road maps, tucked in a dusty drawer,
Still within reach. You brush my hand.
“What are your plans today” I ask. You look away.
We talk about, maybe next year, running away.
“It’s coming quickly,” I say, and I stare at you.
You smile, thoughts drifting aimlessly past my hand.
The cat - ours, I suppose - is scratching at the window.
You search for her toy, lost in the drawer
Hidden from her teeth, which destroy even the wind.
Our traveling lives shift with the wind -
We pull closer as time blows away.
To Time, the Artist, I beg to be the Draw-er.
Am I growing old too fast for you
I ask to no one, who is standing at the window.
From behind, our cat’s jaw closes on my hand.
Time itself has left no marks on my hand,
Like a pallet wiped clean by the wind
Blowing in gusts through time’s open window.
Are my chances slipping further away?
Will I be here later, and will you?
I tuck my worries into worry’s drawer.
I whittle years onto the dusty drawer,
A 24th mark carved by a steady hand
Whittling into the night, sawdust blowing in the wind.
One piece of life, the one that curls, I send to you
In whatever direction it dances from your window.
Summer comes quickly to carry it away.
Summer come quicker, carry the cold away!
I’ve scribbled on a note you find in the drawer.
I laugh, or try to, as it falls out the window.
You stare at the ink stands on my hand.
I flounder, thoughts falling off my hands onto you.
Time, I say, blows in words through the wind.
You are the window and I am the wind, you read slowly.
Irreversible, my hand-made truth falls away from its drawer.