Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Before the Self Finds Itself in Resistance

Crocus and frost
the kind of a day
between waking and sleep
where memory no longer warms
but hope has yet to seed
the kind of a day
where the earth is the same
without life as it is with it
when shadow and sun have reached
a kind of compromise.

One look inside the mirror
of the still and silver pool
and time disappears
and, with it, mourning.

1 comment:

erin said...

reading li-young lee last night, book of my nights, and thinking this morning that he has this uncanny ability to say both things at the same time. from Pillow:

"And night begins when my mother's fingers
let go of the thread
they've been tying and untying
to touch toward our fraying story's hem.

Night is the shadow of my father's hands
setting the clock for resurrection.

Or is it the clock unraveled, the numbers flown?"

or from A Table in the Wilderness:

"And even my death isn't my death
unless it's the unfathomed brow
of a nameless face.

Even my name isn't my anme..."

i find you doing much the same here and in this i find (what i am personally arriving at), the truth.