It is in the cold moments I write. Kindle for a creaking furnace, which be my heart. To Barbara, my keeper and great-great-mother. She tricked me into thinking she got her scalp scratched open by the cat at 6 am. It took me a minute to realize it was ketchup. Here’s the poem:
I open rusted windows, with the metal mesh and frame bent from removals and mistakes, and feel the cool spring breeze hit me. The fetal winds of warmth wandering the withering veins of a dead winter, it has lost its bitter resolve in the face of change. The striking touch and licks of cool warmth wash my wounds with a wondrous swirl and I feel healing.
I feel healing.
The moments of whispers, of sweet subtle melodies screamed through deep mental passages to be echoed in thought and felt by brush and seen through effect. The first touch the world was given. Touch. Not burn, or slow erosion of the surface be, but the entwined forces of convection be-gin a dance. The notes of storms, the slashes of cold, and the reminders of relief in heat. Let my flesh catch your symbols, let your wisdom flow through me so I can remember. Remember the healing of the spring air telling me to see past my woes. Sorrow be but a traveling foul carried by your sweet songs, it learns them soft, it mimics your tongue. Though a cover it be, taking tune and forging false memory. Mark me hard, let thought not betray, pleasure.
Of this soft spring day.