Sunday, August 16, 2009

A Rebirth of the Sun

Outside, snow falls in circles. Moons hide. Suns elucidate elsewhere, anywhere but here. The oven warms my hands as I wait for toast to brown, to be covered in butter and strawberry jam; wait for the new fallen snow to be driven from my knuckles. This orange glow shrouds my face in the quiet aching of the kitchen, produces memories I never made, about flames used to molten plastic into burst tears on rough painted papers. Fingertips blistered naming constellations, tongue licking verses of the Gita transmogrifying words into animal brethren, smelling volcanic after emerging out of calculated graphite strokes. Those silver stained insect wings are imprinted into grooved skin, dry and cracked like desert earth, and knowledge lingers. Words give rebirth to art, lost treasures of color web together in universal law with disproportionate dimensions. I am left with stiff fingers and floods of ideas moving slow through mental gorges, once dry. Aleathia Drehmer 2008 Published by Munyori Poetry Journal 7/09

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