Fairy dreaming


The clock can pick its victims elsewhere

I sit, little frame, bare neck,

On a little wooden chair, fingering flowers

White, which I think mourn most delicately

Their petals slowly widening and softening

In the shimmer of morning that fills all this space

With a fresh ache

I know not what to make

Of these moments of sudden weakness

As though my insides have

Suddenly gone soft

With a wish for someone to touch

My forehead, my neck

And with the feeling of my mouth swarthed

With a name I cannot remember

Perhaps call it Love, or Time

Perhaps it is the name of your hands, hands that

Hold the universe

Coming to the garden to sweep me

Into an embrace

Scattering pink and white blossoms


Or perhaps it is the name of the feeling

Of seeing a lover come through the door with a warm smile

And a paper bag full of freshly bound books

and sweet buns for the table

Regardless of these dreams,

The morning will pick its own context

Perhaps today it will give

Spring yellows and cotton skirts

And flowers abloom out the window and

My heart? Illiterate

It cannot wander too long

We know love only by the names we give it

Now the clink of the teapot, the click of my shoes

And your gentleness, like the steady flutter of

A butterfly’s wings

Carry me out into the meadows and the woods


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