PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The dogwoods wail in the

powder of daybreak.

Only a distant spring or those

that carry loss 

like a noble harvest can

hear them,

and that mist is 

cruel softness

until it is a gateway

for all of Heaven,

and I am told:

There's something better,

just not here.

Since when did the path

become the destination? 

Even this glittering sorrow

I cannot own.

And to think all this is one

star at the bottom

of our spirit's galaxy—

how long will it take

to know every world within

new worlds,

and some beyond that?

The maples are clawing at 

sprays of ground joy,

but the gold is

like our true selves,

unscathed, never touched,

just passing through,

knowing we were never meant

to settle in here

when we pitched our tents

on the border of being—

dear sublime absurdity.

*  *  * 

Look, over here:

here is the stream I never mentioned,

though it has much to say with

a fire-spitting stammer.

Gentle parade of mirrors,

what do you see

that I cannot? 

And up there, a vintage blue

that misses nothing,

and down here,

the red earth that 

never forgets,

but within, spiraling endlessly,

speaking in light,

tunneling to the center

of where I began,

all I hear is:

Welcome home.

Patricia Joan Jones