Like so many, always present
Somewhere, but never at once,
Ceded and seeded, unable to be gathered:
A boy in his rustling jacket sitting down for soup
A Red-Flyer that spins downside up
A mouse nosing at leaves inside a rusted hub
A fan that hums a patient radius
A neighbor scraping her cast iron skillet
A silver birch stripped upward by deer
A tennis ball wedged into the stair
All these inevitables, seven scrolls squirreled away
Along with so many betrothals made inside
A remembering hospice of the heart:
A confessional letter, unsent
A waning love, apologetic
A day past solstice, sighing
A dark drop of ink, spreading
A tangled rosary, coiled
A case of ashes, closeted
Fragments of the last bites, served.
And all these: feather, artery, bedside manner,
horsehead nebula, rumor, soccer, fright.
Sewn together so tightly we must rocket or retreat
as an octopod unearthed, unsealed.
-- Lizbeth Leigh
© copyright 2014 by Guilded Lily Press
sold by Eric Sun, New York
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