Sunday, August 7, 2011

Chronicle

 A yearning to be known builds daily,
to be fully aware and recount what matters,
to tell the story of the journey and understand
what remains to be seen.
 
Notes scribbled in the wide margins of memory
beside journal entries, the real narrative conjured
of long days and nights, rising, falling, with faith
and the plague of hope, all within the same breath.
 
Sounds that drift lazily in and out of doors
left ajar for unknown reasons, echoes of laughter,
nuances of texture, a blend of light, tenderly
filters through windows on the shady side,

familiar blue shadows and the trellis
that crosshatches the wall with squares of sun.
This, the place of my clearest vision, the song
I waited long to sing, my destination and arrival.
 
Here is the proof of life, generations of sweetness,
the children and those that followed living the mystery
as delicate as the white throat of a lily,
legends they have created with their dreams.

I long to shed the faltering version of myself, the partial
truths and condensed editions; morsels and crumbs only,
the continuum evading, slipping through the hollow in my heart
just as I am about to surrender to joy.

N.C.

1 comment:

  1. I love that phrase, "the wide margins of memory."

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