canticle in white for a snowless holiday

“one’s not half two. It’s two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating,shall occur
no death and any quantity;but than
all numerable mosts the actual more”

-e.e. cummings

 

hope alights

butterfly on flower

and reminds the solitude

of its purpose,

direction

in mithril dreams and

lead incantations

that

describe and

unfold into the waves

crashing off the bed.

sheets

rain coming down

peppering dots and dashes

Morse code

writing the manuscript

the orchestra follows

and the conductor unveils the secret

under wraps since

sometime in ’89

where is she going now?

a beautiful disaster

waiting to

crash and

live, alive

waiting for the questions

but no one seems to ask

and everything falls away.

burning

the nostrils

and taking refuge

and solace within

the idea that

burning is turning

from one form to another

when

she really

just wanted

to be left alone.

It’s all too hard,

too much to ask,

half, not whole

and

“all lose, whole find”

seems cryptic enough to the loved

and the loved one

all at once…

off in flight

there she goes

wandering to distant destinations that

garner feeling from inside

by way

of sunlight and madness

and a favorite work of fiction.

run along

and know…

I wait,

here I sit and

I ponder where

the things I fell so maddeningly short in

left this hunger in her

that cannibalized her from

the inside

out.