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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