|Jan/Feb 2007 Poetry|
I remember being small
and able to touch the sky.
My brother didn't believe me.
He said it was too far away,
up there where the blue is.
"Blue is not the point," I said.
The sky comes all the way down
Or what do you call the space between?
I asked my dad if I was right.
He just looked up, and back down at me, quiet,
the sky right there between us.
It fills the green-painted rowboat,
upturned and damp with secrets
beneath the pine trees in the side yard,
lays anchor between the grass blades.
It flows through your fingers as you move,
cradles you like water
in a bright womb,
and feeds sharp cold to the lungs.
It enters you in small dark ways.
it doesn't seem like much,
but notice how it veils the light
from a truant sun,
the flutter of its cool blanket
against your skin,
its faceless touch tucking you in
with your last breath,
and watching over all the things
you'll never see.