A Year of Poems – Day 50

Faded flowers on the mantelpiece,
the shine of tile polished to a sheen,
framed in the porcelain wall a sheet
of melted sand where I can see me.
There’s no other way to say it.
There’s so many ways to say it.
But no matter how I try to play it
the face in the sand is always me.
Sometimes the words come out fast
filling my sail and bending my mast.
Sometimes the wind never blows,
I make a date then she never shows.
I’m left alone with the sand
grasping at straws with my hands.
Dead grass has its own life,
even after the knife’s flight
through the heart of the stalk,
the fire will gleam like the eye of hawk.
Those flowers in front of me,
my eyes looking back at me,
my words speaking back to me
as they jump off my skin like a flea,
they each have a way to say it.
the flowers, the sand, and the grass
go different ways turn by turn,
but just like us have the potential to burn
bright, steadfast, and clean.

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