I'm writing between the heat
and stagnancy of thought tonight:
counting down to dawn.

Cloaked in this stifling summer,
I dream of throwing snowballs
and making snowmen -
daydreams of something
I have only ever known
once or twice.

These are the nights I need a miracle.

These are the nights I pray
for the phone to ring or
a letter to miraculously appear.

And I wait
wait
wait;
Anxiously.

When they don't arrive,
I construct excuses in my head -
a symbol of my insecurity.

The truth, it seems,
is always far more simple -
the distraction of a sunrise
or sunset and everything in between.

But even in her simplicity,
Truth is never enough.

She weaves her way
into my heart and
contorts under my skin,
awaiting the abusive nourishment
of sunlight, with its
scorching precision for
branding me with a
date of downfall.

I tell myself that we
are made of stronger stuff -
sing myself to sleep with
the sounds of reassurance.

Do
Re
Mi
Fa
So, we are left wanting;
but we can fight the inadequacy of men -
sometimes even forgive it -
because we know that in the end,
this will come full circle.

We are poetry and photography.
We are music and dance.
We are earth, wind, fire and water.
We are souls floating in the breeze
and sucking in gulps of inspirational molecules.

Yet Truth, She rears her ugly head
and with an imperfect cadence,
the lullaby is concluded,
calling forth the sun.

I feel backwards this morning;
undoing, undone, undone -
how did it turn on its face
when the moon seemed
so bright to begin with?

This is the thanks I get
for trusting another
inconstant satellite.

12/23/2003

Posted on 12/23/2003
Copyright © 2024 Karen Michelle