5 April 2016

April 5: Quiet Poems

I cannot seem
to write
quick poems
anymore:

there is tenderness
under my skin, and
words I have been
gathering, yes, but

it is harder to find abundance
and easy grace, joy is more
of a struggle than it ever was;

although somehow
it is more precious
for it. Bitingly so.

There are quiet poems
in how I grieve

quiet rhythms
to my words
and dreams -

how I watch them
burn
my cold-skinned
grandmother, how
everything changed
and how hard it is
to forget

how learning a new script
is exhilarating, and also
how it is breaking my heart

to be so close
and so far
(from
myself)

how everything makes
less sense, but seems
to be falling into place
anyway.

My stories
have become
more crisp

I can taste
autumn leaves
scattered like gems
on a forest floor.

I am more silent now,
but every time I worry
I have nothing to say

my body proves me wrong.

I languish in blank white
and rewrite words for days
until I rush onto paper
like a river, like dawn.
Here is a
quick
poem.
Here is
quiet.

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