Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Changing Cast of Morning Clouds

The clouds have been woven to herringbone wool
and all I do is paint them;
The band plays it funky to rev up the morning
and I fit my soul in the bass line;
I react, like the well-oiled machine I am
to the news and gossip of the day, the terms used
convey me to a place not quite there, not quite here.

Illumination comes as the white sun through clouds.

I was responsible for my own unfoldment once
—I left the scene of the crimes,
demanded my own holy vista,
drove off the clothes and the ideas I wore,
stood alone at a rippling, glistening pond,
but the people I had hurt came back in time
to show me the damage I had done,
responsibility created fault
because I let the childish looking go
to move toward something larger.
My love was not quite strong enough
to overcome condemnation.

So here I am, on rails at fixed times,
providing the insights expected to those
who'd cry every night to be heard—
an intricate fabric, a singular thread
moves to disappear—knowing the sun
rewards failure, and there's always a hope
I can lose everything
again, and the next time
the ruins will be pure


Anonymous said...

For me, when losing can be viewed as giving, I can see beauty.

William A. Sigler said...

Beautiful comment!