Poem

Calendar Days

I walk through the calendar days of my yard,

making the rain equal on both sides, seeking

sunlight in the middle where the breeze finds

my faults. I survive the storms of spring,

but not intact. With parts of me missing I navigate

ground that never dries, mud holes layered

with leaves. The world gives everyone permission

to run down a mountaintop where clouds cover the sun

and bird flight makes folly wise. The part of me 

that vanishes like wood smoke is bound to appear 

again when I feel myself falling asleep in a swamp

of misapprehension, in the trouble of netted

memory, where I play and tangle my feet together

in a rapid dance. Something calms me. A hand

beneath the breeze settles my skin where I am

all brambles and thorns. The surface of the sky

glistens above my face. I grow accustomed

to drowning, no longer insisting that my blood

warm me. What made me but discipline

and fast fingers beating my will?

The only meaning is the repetition of sound

in the only place I can hear it.