In Gathering Light

In Gathering Light

1

I sit in darkness
my back to the words
gouged in stone

and wonder what
phrase the stars will
utter tonight,

what wisdom
one finds in dreams

or the widening circles
of the hole that was
there
in water,

in earth, in the common tongue
of all things.

The tree speaks
a different language.
I hear

whispers, a bone-flute’s
whistle, the sound of metal
striking dirt striking

wood,
but nothing, no words
I can gather.

2

I have lost my shadow
among the weeds
of this place.

Somewhere
it wanders,

a thin, grey shape
waiting for light to give birth

to the blackness
I call friend,

itself, shadow.
My fingertips trace
the lines, hoping

to draw something
from the stone –
an unknown word,

the druid’s
small bag of dreams,
the lyrics of the stars.

 

* * *

Another poem, another artifact from the mid-80s, just rediscovered.

28 thoughts on “In Gathering Light

  1. This stirs up urges to revisit a cemetery frequented back in the 8th grade – I lived that year with my aunt in the town she and my mother grew up in, and my aunt weekly meditatively tended to the family plot. While your poem is more intimate than my 8th-grade thoughts, I feel now what my aunt likely felt back then.
    Glad you found this and shared it. The longing that comes through is palpable.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Pingback: In Gathering Light — O at the Edges | Poetry is a Verb!

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