Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Like flying a silver kite in a thunderstorm

Cold night

I can’t stay asleep any longer, so I
walk my aching self out of the dark nest,
the cave where dream-slivers prick me
and stony thoughts bruise my feet.
Unconsciousness is a kind of contentment,
so warm in the lightless room, weightless,
self-less. Awake, words the color of lead
make my robe. I’m stiff with cold and waiting
for someone, anyone to light a lantern, a moon,
a bonfire, at least then I could watch these
shadows dance until sunup.


Rethabile said...

I like. Thank you, Lori

Lori Witzel said...

You're so welcome, Rethabile!