Snapshots #2 : NaPoWriMo #8

Snapshots #2

When you put the horizon
inside a picture frame
it ceases to be the horizon,
becomes a fragmented view
of an experience immersed
in light and wind and sound,
the soft ground beneath you
accepting your footsteps
like the flesh of some mammoth
to which you remain unknown,
and it’s a moment you can’t relive,
even when wrapped in the ghostly serape
of your memory.

Snow clings to these needled limbs
just before sunrise
like white sheets draped
over sleeping children,
peaceful and undisturbed
the air seems pregnant
with chilled anticipation,
a quiet just before laughter
and the trickling calm
of warmth entering the world.

Nature unfolds its palm
to the unfettered sky,
always a captive audience
for this most audacious
of magic tricks.
A perpetual rabbit out of hat,
this cycle of awakening
unto drowsing, a coin drawn
from behind the ear
and tossed up into fragrant air
where it disappears
as if never there.
This is the illusion
of breath, of being.

Blackbird perched on a concrete block
doesn’t even know I exist,
doesn’t know the stresses
of bills past due, or love like a ship
taking on water. He just flies
from one parking lot to the next,
from one danger to another
found right in his nest,
and still, the hatchlings must learn
how to flap their wings
before they hit the ground.

Full moon shining
in through the skylight,
pinning four golden squares
to the opposite wall,
the rest of the room outlined
with a glinted edge of blue glow.
The clock ticks, counting down
the orchestra of dreams,
the metronome of my wife’s breath
lulling me there like ocean waves
smoothing the troubled beaches
of another stress filled day,
washing those angry footsteps

A toddler with a trach tube
still shrieks in glee
at the prospect of new shoes.

I am the king of crickets,
their songs are sung
in praise of me,
a dusk serenade
for my body
incapable of anything
but noise.


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