Monday, June 18, 2007

Each time the lock is turned

Grinding weights crush against my form.
Please spare the one in the middle.
For that is where I must suck the marrow from the hand.
The one drenched with milk and honey,
while deer cavort in the sun-dappled shadows.

Too easily the ground gives way.
And earth, sky, sun and clouds
collapse into the dark regions below.
I walk through the gray fog that remains,
my feet sinking into the loamy mire.

A horse without a rider gallops by me,
His hoofs spewing mud into the air
The chimes from the tower in the distance
peal a mournful dirge.

I feel it quicken so I begin to run toward the hunched figure
limping on the path ahead of me.
Before I can reach him he enters a house.
Inside one candle burns in the window.

I stand outside and watch,
as the shades are pulled and the shutters fastened tight.
I know they are because I feel the click there,
each time the lock is turned,
each time the lock is turned.

As the candle is extinguished
stars descend and swirl around me.
The quarter moon ascends.
It’s creamy whiteness evokes a prayer

for the one in the middle that waits.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Great idea for a blog, Pablo Neruda is one of my favorite writers