Hard-hearted efforts roll in the
Summer grass like children
With green-stained knees. What
Pleases people in their time of

Discontent? Perhaps the moments
Stolen from youth embed themselves
In our aching bones and scratch
Out homes inside the aging marrow.

Throw off the snowy blanket
From your sleepy head and find
The Springtime of your days. There
Is no use for writhing in your skin �

You are in it, and there you�ll stay.
It is easy enough to keep the clock
And let seconds flow into hours, but
Our passage here is brief � a flicker

In the Universe. Do not dare
Rehearse your days so much that you
Miss your role, your spotlight �
And fade into your own audience.

Decahedron

I have broken the stones.
Ten blows upon the bones
And they have cracked. I used
To think I�d walk the wire

To get back to you. To your
Stills and your roars, but in a
Boat that has one oar, I rowed
Myself in circles through your

Cycles. Those days are washed
Up on the beach now and when
I close my eyes, your late show
Has turned to snow. The white

Noise buzzes � static and non �
Sense. I know that when the ink
Dries on the paper that it will all
Begin again. That moment will

Vomit the ten from its aching
Belly. They say to keep loved
Ones close, but to keep enemies
Closer; and I have had you so

Close that you lived beneath
The surface of my skin for those
Ten moments, those ten stones,
Through tender touches & mental

Bruises. Odd how it amuses me to
See the story unfold in my head�
From that sleeveless shirt of red, to the
Dirt under my tongue as I tried to

Beg forgiveness from the merciless
Hand that banned me from resolve.
I have evolved from that sweetgrass
You once combed with your fingers,

Into a dour and sharpened mind, and
You shall find me identical to what
I was when first we met. Independent,
Gathered, creative and strong.

Bonnie Thorpe
Copyright � 2003