To You
that was it.
So our We-space ends.
I sit
with the rest,
trying to make sense.
Questions
to the World.
Questions to myself
( empty
all dried up
hanging in thin air
like dropped
suspended
frozen, left behind )
From here:
Where to turn…
How… CAN I connect?
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It began with the sound of the soothing song of the Black bird and its hectic, laborious upbringing of two or more broods of bickering hatchlings per summer – That was my image of the teacher I am becoming (willingly or not), and a suitable poetic background to the challenge…
the air swam a little different in the days following the fire as though held in a state of impassioned disbelief an imposed shock or awe – in breath not quite lost but caught – by oils, and the scene of now blackened embers, charred brick beams of the roof…