The sailboat waited for the wind,
for the tide to rise, and the clouds
waited for the sun, while the trees waited
for rain. The river waited for the moon
to tell its tidal tales, and the fish waited
for the river to flow their days. And it was
quiet, and still, and I was waiting, too.
I was counting tides on the sailboat,
waiting for you.
Remember how I waited
for all the words you didn’t say,
like the gasp the sun makes
just before she dives into the sea,
and yellows and oranges turn deep,
into blue foghorn songs in the dusk.
Now I walk dark streets in silence,
to see if your words hang there,
waiting, a song to be collected,
but block after block is empty,
quiet, no words left for me.
I’m starting this year in a black dress and combat boots.
Gone are the wasted minutes of waiting,
replaying reflections to find reasons, seeking reassurance;
that’s all behind me, flattened by boot prints.
But look up, and you’ll still see the sweet I hold on to,
I cherish, like the quietest cloud at sunset,
or the taste of music, or the feel of blue.
I’m still here this year, with boots to carry me through.
Always somehow ripped
at the corners, wrinkled
down the middle, and looking
like day old coffee
stains have more weight
than the words on the page.
Printed again, it still turns
out the same, so I leave
it there, on the corner
of the desk to soak
in early morning rays and
to whisper to me, though
I turn away and sip my coffee,
tired of its dusty words.
I am you, it taunts, with its stains
and wrinkles, rips and fades.
And knowing the words on it have never
lifted it past the desk, no one
has said yes, yes, but only no,
its torn corners wait, and I rest
my coffee mug upon it, leaving
an uneasy circle across my words.
Talking to the Clouds 