I have fallen, fallen deeply,
deeply beyond the horizon.
No longer to escape you
midnight black hole
of breathless purple gravity.
You have opened, opened slowly,
slowly the door to your darkness.
Enticed, invited, curious
cradle of light,
so willingly I tumbled in.
Secrets buried, buried with care,
care to keep your universe blue?
The bough that breaks shattered the light,
plunging gravely,
lulled and lost from wisdom’s view.
Submitted by Theresa
You arrived with a ficus
a living tree in my house
something new.
We moved the ficus to our house
dressed it up with lights
small white ones.
You watered it
Sundays and Thursdays
at least a thousand times.
Nourished to death,
no space to grow,
we moved the ficus out.
Uncontrollable growth,
no space remaining, and
motionless, they moved you out.
I bought a ficus the other day.
I water it
Sundays and
Thursdays,
of course.
Submitted by Theresa
theresa0714@comcast.net
Ah ha!
I see you have your clipboard
and a pencil too.
You survey, walking slowly,
inspecting from all angles.
You bend, you climb, you crawl.
I watch – as your chosen instrument
moves across the page, filling spaces –
a gliding motion, a pause,
staccato scribbles, it glides again.
A new roof, you say, sometime next year.
And the chimney, a brick is loose.
We’ll need cement – just a bit
to hold it together.
The windows, you mention windows,
they must be scraped, caulked and painted.
Need some putty, too.
And the foundation – a shovel.
Keep that moist earth away from
the clapboards – or they’ll rot.
I smile, gently take the pencil
from your hand.
I say,
within this rigid shelter,
of sticks, stones and glass
a softer refuge breathes.
Mark me as you do your paper.
Fill my spaces.
Bend, climb, crawl into me.
Brush the dust away and seal my cracks.
Search deeply, seek them out, probe.
Smooth the uneven edges.
Mold and warm me with your finger tips.
Hold us together with your cement.
Cold and dampness rot my casings, too.
I am your house, you live in me.
Submitted by Theresa
theresa0714@comcast.net
