Spark
The woman stands on the porch
in the full moon light
chilled despite the early spring warmth.
The dim hills surround her.
In the monkey puzzle tree
a yellow bird calls.
She steps down onto the brick path
her lover's hands laid years ago.
Those kind and generous hands
now ashes.
Above, Cassiopeia.
Below, the scrape of brick
against bare soles.
Within, a flame sparks
as if her feet were matches.
The bird lifts in flight,
chirruping and laughing.
Wait for me, she whispers.
Under the branches of the ancient maple
where the squirrel twitches in acorn dreams
where the owl watches for careless mice
where the yellow bird nestles with her young--
she stands on a bed of moss,
waits for the flare of a new day
and the touch of hands
kind and generous hands.
this is a revision of a poem previous posted as Pilot Moon Light. You can read the first draft here.
Photo courtesy of Willow.
6 comments:
That baby photo of you is simply adorable!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh what a beautiful baby!
I like this poem too. Paints a sweet/sad story...
Starlight, scraping soles, feet like matches, and the flare of a new day .... This is a very fiery poem. But not like a bonfire. Beautifully written .....
I like the transformation this piece has taken, with the dreamy details of the spring night. I reread the first version, and like the simplicity of it, as well.
What a cute photo on your header Suki. I enjoyed your poem too. Wow. I wonder if she is still waiting for those strong hands.
Eerily pretty.
I agree with Lisa. I love your header and great poem.
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