Saturday, 18 May 2013

18. Sometimes


A sad woman asked me
“Can this be changed?”
and hoped I would have
a key in my pocket
to fit the lock of her

The lonely man asked
“What shall I do?”
as we both sat,
with his chain ankle ghost,
that manacled

we keep our souls
in a locked box
on the window sill
and fear death’s fingers
if it rattles.

we seek to hear only
clattering dialogue of thought,
clanking down the
one way tracks to

And sometimes
the truth is hidden in cell-seeds
trapped in shoulder stories,
or the anxious rope tale
of your skipping

“What does your body say?”
I want to ask.
The answers
will hold their
breath and wait
for you.

But only in that
rejected, split off
holder, in the
soft sacred
body bowl

Will you ever feel
the right question to ask.
The question that
tells you, finally:
it is time
to harvest.

Painting by AWM, Day 18 of his Daily Painting Project

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