Friday, February 20, 2009

#366: Prodigal

I'm missing this too much--the way my brain
not long ago would daily search the ground
and sky for inspiration; then, once found,
transform it to a vehicle for pain
or pleasure, memory of wrongs
or little kindnesses, or else just shapes
built to contain odd thoughts and small escapes--
dumb jokes; short stories; benedictions; songs.

The cycle ends, and one day you return
and barely know the place; the hinges rust,
the door swells in its frame. Does that home fire
still smolder under sleeping ash, still burn,
and want only this breath to re-inspire?
I'll get back in and find out now. I must.

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