Now while the short memory of summer
lies and steals, pretending
some kind of sweetness, erasing the truth,
I cannot recall the last time I saw
a starflower nor the details
of slow dusk. Here in the long
husk of winter, more lies, the fire
pretends to burn cheery
in the false gas grate, frigid window
slips frost glitter over tedium of iced walks’
cautious steps to the car, the tedium
of overheated cars–oh some things
I recall too well for too long:
those hot words we shot
in the face of bulletproof times,
snarling with anguish.
We forgot about music then
and these days I want everything:
the sweet enclosing cacophony of city streets
the smooth breeze of a clean meadow,
and the sea, harsh salt and cold surf.
To stand on a mountain
its long boulder body singing
up through my feet. Oh Earth,
carry me close, there is
no heaven here.
Kyla Houbolt writes even though she is old enough to know better. You can find all her currently published work on her Link Tree, here: @luaz_poet | Linktree She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.
Image via Pixabay