The ebb and flow of seasons,
\nof hours,
\nof cloth covering a coffin,
\nof turning pages on a blank,
\nunwritten diary.
\nWho can know what happened
\nif no one speaks?
\nGathers their words together,
\nshort as they are.
\nThey are the only fruit left behind.
\nThe only witness to the drab
\nand beautiful,
\nto faith and despair.<\/p>\n
So a dreary day makes me
\nturn inward.
\nThen an emphatic no!
\nWhat little light there is,
\nI want it!
\nHowever thin its radiance,
\nI need it.
\nI cherish it.
\nHowever lost, I feel,
\nI am not,
\nas long as I claim myself.<\/p>\n
Looking at the sky in overcast
\nI praise it for its subdued serenity.
\nIts half opened lids,
\nand say,
\nI love the color of your skin,
\nyour soft gray eyes,
\nopen like a beautiful bride
\nwanting to be loved and consumed.<\/p>\n
Day with April colored hair,
\nI want you to rain inside me.
\nTo open your flirting lips and ask,
\nwill you say something
\nin your diary about me?
\nAnd I nod, smiling, and reply,
\nI care so much for having you,
\nI will carve my words
\non a page a million years old,
\nstone sculptured like a bride.
\nTed and his day.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The ebb and flow of seasons, of hours, of cloth covering a coffin, of turning pages on a blank, unwritten diary. Who can know what…<\/p>\n