Sometimes the Clouds Can Only Rise So High

[This spoon is made from beech.  The grain-wrought patterns have me think of flight, flow, beauty at heights...]

I had gathered words

for a fire that I thought

I would never build,

they have rested

high up on a ledge

overlooking an eternity

you know,

like a beacon, some envision

a siren call never to be heard, some hear.

Most days I build my fires the normal way:

on the coldest of days,

in the middle of nowhere,

out where they’re most necessary

as if necessity is all

that has us yearn

for a pair of warm hands

And then,

As if to reawaken that one time

When we had rested

like shoelaces, broken on stray shoes lying in cardboard boxes

Next to books

Of long useless addresses,

All those words dangle

upon one more edge,

of one more eternity to watch each other jump

without even saying goodbye, just like that,

each as owls lashing at their fall

in trust,

catching it, and flying

well beyond any simple yearning

for edges, ends, the world, enough,

they shoot past so many

various mountaintops

that ledge seen far below

as if as an assurance

as you glance towards where I once was.

Nestled in my dreams

I hear the sheets move, I feel the moon slide beyond the lingering night there is a pause when I feel

you still look at me (for me) when you let go of my hand when we know, together, all the secrets that would never dare be entrusted to us even as winds rush by a hint, a caress, a pull, you

Who planted passion

Like onion seeds, emerge now within that torn earth of flight like

a fire to be scattered like pine needles along

A muddy path lost in fog yet leading towards the sun