White Sky
by rebecca ~ March 1st, 2006. Filed under: Ordinary Muse, Poems & art.When three hawks flew by in straight lines
I knew something must be done straightaway
to pull the thread taut and flatten the seam
of the quilt. Enough unraveling!
We have a world here before us of drizzly snow
and shiny black branches against white sky.
Something is being said in Chinese
and it’s time to translate the text.
Underneath the grey sedimentary lines of snow sleeps
a tiny red mitten. Its owner has a song to sing
that only those who love him hear.
It sounds like the voice of an angel,
an archangel, and not Gabriel who’s busy
dictating the Qur’an and visiting Mary. And it’s not Varuna,
the Sky God of Sun and Rain. 1000 eyes watch without sound.
Listen. Maybe it’s Pleiades or Paramita or Norway Pine.
Does the name matter? If the song sung is plein (sailing)
or peleiades (flock of doves), will you still dance with love?
Everyone dances who loves this child, and that’s why we’re here,
tugging your hand. We keep the hearts safe, under here.
The telephone won’t be answered in seven languages.
The last sip of coffee grows hearty limbs and
stands as a lemon tree atop a hill in Rio.
There are boxes humans make of windows and homes, a child.
Even the car in repose is a box with something almost human inside.
Walls don’t smile or laugh or give hope. The trees speak quickly.
One blink and the fractals shatter unread.
The message spreads like a blue flame searing
across the palm of my hand, up collarbone, beneath my tongue.
Ask the red mitten! She’ll tell you that to be lost
in snow is fine with her. She has memories of being
whispered to, and she grasps the words inside the very fibers
of her being. She has nothing else left
to hold. There is the pair of eyes, large as bowls
filled with black ink, and inside them
a boy lives a life those who love him need near.
In the space of one of the hawk’s wings is a tear
from a crow who wanted its home to itself, not in the mood to share.
If it’s a tear or a tear doesn’t matter to the branches right now.
To be saved from this world you must first
bury yourself in the snow, close your hands over
your ears and hum. A blue glass bottle is today.
The white sky signifies infinite hope.