Fractions and picket fences.
A quarter of the time—whole life.
Surrounding what it encompasses…
Compartments. Safe.
Not my pieces—
Trying to attain the sum of something.
Paint the days, white-Lilly, strokes-imperfect,
but they’ll do.
Those not brave enough!
Keep the gate closed.
I tell myself running-up hills.
On the outside of comfort, weary.
Why?
You ask as if I know—
I’d rather feel soil escaping through my fingers,
as I steal flowers from the earth.
My mother, in her needlepoint apron,
was a promise to keep!
What I became only to let go…
Wounded soldier. A kaleidoscope.
I’ve always wanted to live there—
Sturdy staircase. White stove.
Windows that turn falling rain into musical notes.
If footsteps could carry us backwards…
We could recreate the world, solid-men,
marching-bands in the fields,
swing-free, birds, on a tire-empire,
tug-rope secure over a grandfather-branch.
Put on the coffee!
Hush your nonsense…
I will build blue-steel ceilings,
no dream can escape
without a price.
Count to ten and breathe.
Listen for a thing called love,
another time—
I am here! Here!
The temperature is changing.
Bring in the wood for the fire.
Exterior chipping,
to the ground falls with leaves blowing east.
A message in the night:
hang the yellow dress—hope
on a back hanger.
Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2018
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