Atmosphere

Atmosphere




Our old love is an empty nest of misdirected prayer,
blinded by oblique perception,
our strange misconceptions…


Our impractical tides collide on darkened shores;
memory is awash in seconds; hours that seem like days
of youthful design. In a last dream, we write another plea;
a desire to free the spirit and mind . . .


In the ocean’s wake a cloak lies torn and tattered.
I have shed this for one more day, to stand naked before you;
I listened to liquid words that bathed my skin,
but never heard the poems destined to anoint souls.


The sun struggles under gathering clouds and you and I glance
upward; eyes trace the winged flight
of the white bird that traverses . . .

Our atmosphere is thick like lamb's wool;
our climb is strenuous and breath is shallow. Your journey,
like mine is slow and you and I have so far to travel.

I read of a messenger bird (in the days of old)
and remember the voice that said, “Go in the open field,
there smooth stones will be placed at your feet.

Don't weep for regret for life is a precept
and determines nothing except what is measured in love
and kindness, and what is a tiny moment in time
to a lover's heart?”

Deborah Russell, © 2001