Fragments
There are
only fragments,
never a whole. It has been so
since before time, and yet,
we need the whole none the less.
Breakfast is meaningless without it.
The sun becomes a source of consternation.
We do not believe in rice pudding - it cannot be.
We turn to our loved ones for answers
which they cannot supply. Finally
we view their concern as betrayal.
Like windows which actually steal the light.
Look at
yourself in the mirror.
You'll see everything but yourself.
It cannot be otherwise and yet,
just try to stop looking.
Cyclical
I watch
the birds come
and go in a whirl of colors,
collect their feathers each
spring into a stained glass box.
Each winter
I set them free,
and watch the sky turn
purple then gold. I take
long walks in the snow.
My footprints
trot a step
behind my feet, though I am never
sure just what it is I'm getting nearer.
I survey distance like a man without a hat,
break twigs
off branches out
of discontent, then scorn myself
for still allowing my eyes
into this haven to the blind.
This year
I'm coming across more
and more hollow trunks by the roadside,
their wombs large enough to give
birth to charcoal foals who'll dash
through
the steppes like mad shadows,
chasing crows and tumbleweeds,
until their knees buckle
under the weight of stars.
Copyright © 2001 Mark Melton
