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Sunday, March 21, 2010

Reading Sara Teasdale

Reading poetry


we were in the lounge;
I was reading Sara Teasdale,
lost in rhyme and reason
but looking for none;

the snow was falling outside,
huddled together
by an open window
shining bright in the sun,

it all felt so clean,
as a blank page
like a new beginning,
but for me, we were done;


though the snow imitates
apple blossoms, they go a wintry way,
the bright that shines
is false, it does not warm,

like a candle lit at day,
I was lost, not in you,
but from you, like dark from light,
or a snowflake lost in a storm,

I was gone from you,
though I was still sitting
there reading lyrical poetry,
I was an empty form.


I knew you loved me,
so I kept silent
in the silence of the
falling snow;

but I am I, who longs to be
lost in senses rushing
to blow the dust
off secrets from the low,

a boy born in April,
wanting to plunge deep
from the arrow of spring and
summer's bow;


there are things I
cannot know, like
how to catch in your palm
the far-blown rain,

or how to stop
the rushing wind
screeching past
on an invisible train,

but I know the heart
needs to be honest,
to be true and open
even to the pain;


so I stopped
reading Sara Teasdale,
and with all my courage
looked at you,

and I saw
how your eyes
reflected mine,
that you knew it, too,

we were no longer
of one mind and body
melting like snow,
we had divided into two.

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