February 25: Late at night
February 26, 2013 § Leave a comment
(Thumbelina and the swallow)
frozen beak, crystal eyes,
pull out feathers for potions and protections,
to be spring, not queen of the underworld,
but if the swallow does not revive, then
a toad’s wife
A buried child grows a little creature in his heart. Its teeth are soft and green like sea grass. It can only chew mud and fog. Fog is always warm, especially in the centers of trees, especially in the heart of the forest. His heart will break many times. I give thanks.
White starched curtains cover the body on the outside. There is lace on the bottom. The insides are lined with torn red bloody cloth, exposed to the wind. The body’s front door has been open. This is no spring cleaning. The hidden inner crevice contains a bird, a cauldron, a tree. All have been broken many times, looking weathered and dignified, an antique store back room treasure.
Oh, to live life with a two-beat delay:
no moment is meaningful until tomorrow,
let it happen tomorrow, today uncover only the magic of yesterdays.
We are never on time, even for spring.