Interiors
The history of shadows, a longing
for brightness to bring through your
eyes shapes and their
belongings: our differences, entwined.
It is evening. Wind breathes in the trees and
through your hands at the piano, returning
speech to its origin, clouds, the moon,
burning wood. November, dying.
How often I fail through lack of words.
Beauty in form. Not to create but as in
respiration, to share, to accept and
return without thought. In and out,
the days reciprocate. White, black. Figures
waiting in darkness for light to come bear them.
Another poem from the 80s, “Interiors” made its first appearance here in May 2015.
Your 80s are a goldmine, Bob! And again, the immense power and beauty of your last line (s): ” Figures/waiting in darkness for light to come bear them” – such a nourishing image for me to start my day with!
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Thanks, Lynne. I think they were more accurately a mixture of goldmine and landfill, with results tilting heaviiy toward landfill. Ha!
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