The Only

I would gladly spell out
my days as the words
of a one-page poem,
gusting with the flit of
just-opened and curious eyes,
that drink in draughts
the sight of fresh
life, slick with
the still-wet coat of
amniotic newness—
one that diffuses the
scent of Infancy and
of Beginning—
nestled among the
wise and gnarled
roots of Old Life

I would ripple with the
crisp sound of crinkling,
windborne paper,
an orphaned sheet
that rides the back of
Virile Spring’s balmy breath.

I would this, rather
than spend forty chapters
locked in cold—
desolate, immobile, and rote—
suppressed between the
hardbound lead cover of
an immutable and
Icy Expanse:
buried to the jawline
under the Forever Cloak
of a shiftless snowfield.


Never will I be
bolted to the slab
of a Winter Tomb,
even if the breadth
of my life
stretch ongoing as
the Longest Day.

If it is Fate that
the Echo of Me
resound through the
brevity of a but a
single, bright and
beautiful season,
then let it be
the season of Birth
and Rebirth—the
Season of Creation.


3 thoughts on “The Only”

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