The women share a secret,
chattering
until we enter their circle,
giggling
when they think we can't see.
We ask them for a hint
but they lower their eyes,
smile delicately
from the corners of their mouths.
It only increases our desire
to know.
Perhaps it was something
they did long ago,
consequences notwithstanding,
the memory possesses
a lingering sweetness.
This might explain their camaraderie,
the way they rest their chins
on the curl of their fists,
stare at each other
with intense intrigue.
Tell us one story
or give us a clue.
Whisper a sentence
or even a word
that might carry
in the warm summer breeze
when you close your eyes
to remember.
Barefoot in white slacks
and her husband's sweater,
she plays the piano most seriously,
bungling Mozart with a grimace
then a grin,
the lamplight
flickered unnoticed upon her fingers.
The field from where her progeny
once thrived has withered,
grown voices and opinions
have fled the confines of the arena
where music,
like a tranquilized tiger,
swerves again.
Her foot presses pedals,
fingernails carelessly flit keys,
and in her womb
a musician is conceived.
The house is no longer empty,
half full with sound,
she nourishes herself.
Dive into water,
become the wetness,
that's the way I'd like it.
Others might choose to be a robin,
fly like the pinto's hoof,
or prey with a tiger's stealth.
I would be water,
an enigma to all,
shallow and transparent,
deep and unyielding,
my darkest secrets well kept.
Beneath the surface,
it would be cool and quiet,
though whales ripple stillness
and great white sharks
shred paths with razor teeth.
Water embraces all,
even a boulder,
when cast from shore
to shatter the tranquility,
is happily accepted.
Any intruder is offered a home.
Yet, I have seen water rise,
angered when the wind
instigates its timidity.
to perpetrate moments of retaliation.
Perhaps at its core
a heart beats between coral ribs,
rippling a message
at the surface of calm,
a simple, transparent message,
the pulse of a universal conscience.
Two days ago
the sun caught me stealing light
to illuminate a poem,
demanded restitution,
then reported me to Mother Nature
who posted my likeness about the land.
Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.
filed suit for substantial abuse
and complacent philandering without permission.
I pleaded guilty;
admitted taking breath from wind
for deliverance,
marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,
and rage from the ocean
to instill a sense of urgency.
Convicted and confined to a windowless room
no writing, visitation
or glimpses of stolen sights,
I was sentenced to imagine beauty
without embezzlement
and the wholesale exploitation of words.
Every night
a different message.
Tell me tonight
about the translucent bones
of icicles on the gutter.
Their tale is a disclosure
of your stalking.
You enter as a burglar
on the heels of darkness
and leave no fingerprints,
yet cleverly steal away secrets
between the elusive shadows
you create,
some darker than others,
convoluted figures
rummaging in the most remote corners
of the room.
The sleepless await an explanation
but your peering eyes
slip away
when the clouds make you blink.
If you do take something,
no one is the wiser.
The sand in your light
eventually blinds into submission
the most suspicious
who, in the morning, awake inspired
yet unaware of your intrusion,
until the icicles drip
in the rising sunlight.