Wavering Now and Then

Spider webbing loosely stays together in the corner of the window, wavering now and then. On the other side of the glass, a prism throws rainbows around the room above a yawning furnace. Golden maple light reflects in cold puddles on the back deck. Rain ending.

He held my hand and it was better than love. You can't go around what you have to go through. Some things are prayers. Some things are poems. Some lines are made when fire meets the sea. But those lines, they don't matter. Those prayers, they don't matter either. What always was, still is. I don't know how else to say it.

I wake with a crick in my neck, which is to say, I wear lightening bolts around my collar. I need something other than coffee in my stomach before working out. My insides are a ship at sea when considering the idea. No birds at this hour, only the grinding gears and flashing lights of garbage trucks.

Some small extinction happens when one chooses to the put the past in its place. Some death. Even the pressed daisy in Dickinson's book of poems can only tell you where you are not. Forgive me; perhaps I have digressed.