July 6, 2008

• Short New Poem

  

  Samsara

  I knelt with my spade
  atop the hard gray pavingstone,
  mixing a spadeful of ashes
  with muddy earth and Mexican sunflowers.

  I carried dust in my pocket
  as I crossed the Smithfield Street bridge
  and opened the plastic bottle, watching
  as thin streams of gray
  joined the Monongahela.

  I stirred the charcoal powder
  into the gravel of the chiminaya,
  covering you with cedar logs
  before warming us both with fire.

  I stood on the Mt. Washington overlook
  as the wind swept you
  from my outstretched hands,
  then I kissed the last of you
  from my blackened fingertips.

  • 2:41 pm
  • 6 Comments