USA

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SLEEPING WITH THE INVISIBLE

She dreads the thought of leaving
empty-handed as her life leaks out
and words beat against each other
into alphabets of silence.

She fears the wind
with its invisible rope and scaffold
the sea with a thousand eyes
and rain like a dance of knives

Held fast in amber of memory
she sleeps with the invisible
in the long and late afterward
safe in the dark.

she hears once more
summer harps, choirs of insects,
cinch pods mating
and dandelions snuffing the air.

Night spans out in a slow glide
as a voice deep in her heart's hollow, whispers,

Look long and longer
before the drum rolls of morning
herald the naked earth
no bud time no seed time
and the sun like a dead heart
unfaithful at last.

THE WHITE-LIPPED HOURS

The hours circle in upon themselves.
A pale light marks the boundaries of morning
slipping through the blinds
coasting down the wall until it probes the mirror
where cracks in the surface
foretell the future.

Again she hears the high chirping of crickets
legging out their constant tunes
buds thrusting against the wind
and the sun invading secret corners.

In silence, she leans against the morning.
In silence, she watches earth
rise to cover the jaw of heaven.
In silence, she counts the white-lipped hours
where the fields lie with life in their mouths
whispering rich rumors.

Flickers of memory return,
planetary days from the old dark the late dark
where the snow lay deep
until the desolation of another spring.

She remembers intoxicating melodies
bonfires of sound
their wild rhythms
and dislocations

She accepts the gift of age
an overflowing cup of years.
Sipping it slowly
she returns it empty

and for one long held moment
she relives that lost moment
until the last swallow tail
signals the end of summer
fading into seasons
far beyond her view.

TIME ENOUGH

In a world lit by summer
during day's sweet drifting,
the rain runs green
and all the buried springs
glow in the soil of sleep .

Even in this mild terrain
the air is burdened
with the taste of regret
the seduction of darkness
and a wilderness beginning to unravel.

Nothing is unknown to us.
We have a weather all our own
an inward circling sun
a river of stars that has no source
and a long history of rain

No more our days
deliciously surrender to the unknown,
for all is known.
No more the lying naked and inventing
new names for nakedness.
No more the singing echoes.

The golden girls are gone.
The bears are dead.
The spells which kept our children close,
forgotten, and the voice that sent us
off into the world becomes our own
as we tell the young

You'll come once upon a time.
Only once
and before darkness rises like hot breath
and the lotus moon's still blooming
in our arms there may be time enough
to choose an ending
that has not chosen us.

STORIED LIVES

Snow is a kindness to the old.
It covers the bones of winter.
Well-worn paths become sudden-new
and strangers speak to one another
convinced that somewhere they were friends.

Memory releases earlier worlds
innocent of endings. Sound
gathers on horizon's spine.
Chords of sunlight sing the morning in
and the skin of earth is beautiful.

As the traveler moon
floats into view
nights are long and longer
than the long wind
sweeping over prairies
and wind has no history.

Moment by moment
the old are moving out
one leaves soon another sooner
stepping lightly lightly
to taste the dark particular.

Voices hum in the wind
and the old do nothing.
They lean upwards
laying secrets bare to the moon
to the snow falling in alphabets of silence
and the small mercies of the stars.

SUDDEN AND STILL

On the day I finally outlive your days, I'll
sleep late, wake to leaf fire and sunlight,
stand at the window staring at peeling eucalyptus.
The air shines and there's room enough
to drown in, but I still float

a lifetime above your kitchen-talk in rooms
of broken English. What you wouldn't give
to have that dream again, daughters with
sweet heft of breasts and thighs, sons
on long stems of bones. The lines in your hand
held the future we knew by touch.

Isadora danced naked on the sand, but you
patrolled the shore, trapped in dailiness,
chafing your bunions on the beach of Lake Winnipeg
rushing to see if one of us had drowned.

What full-time work it was for you to live,
days sucked into sinks full of dishes,
nights spent ironing
every stroke a small act of love.

California shines and shines.
Summer builds earthworks all year round.
Sun glows electric.
I draw long, even breaths, turn
and make such simple crossings back again.

 

© All Copyright, Ruth Daigon.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.