you took your glass slippers
and shattered them
piece by piece
first the heel
cracked off in
a thin sharp sliver
then the sole
crushed glistening
into sand
the rest you
let fall from
your steady hands
broken pieces to be
swept from the floor
into a charred hearth
you gave me a
dozen dead roses
when i placed
you on the mantle
to the left
of the clock
just below the
picture of
my grandfather
i buried those
roses in
the back yard
looking out
the bedroom
window every
night i see
the frail
black cloak
standing over
the dead roses
his painted face
looking out
from under
his heavy hood
his eyes
bear no
malice
just patience
he is waiting
just as i am
neither of us
in any hurry
And so we came upon a valley,
the bottom of which we could not see,
and the air buzzed with electric fog
when we approached the precipice
of our holy mountain.
We stepped, one ginger footfall
at a time, onto the rocks,
onto the roots, making our steps silent
as we descended into the valley.
The buzz and hum of the air
rattled in the thick humidity.
Our gasping throats opened to drink
what water we could gather from the fog.
And as the valley came closer
to our hungry eyes,
the need for anything fell away
and our appetite was replaced
by an emptiness.
We stared out with blank eyes
on the green we had come to see.
The fruitful land was ready and welcoming
but we were far from home.
Our holy mountain loomed on
our descent into the valley
and our eyes dimmed in the shadows
as the mountain blocked out the sun.
feeling my way
through the cloud
of sand churned up
by the crashing waves
the bottom of the
world comes into
focus and i see
the flecks of white
the ridges of shells
dead creatures who
left their skeletons
behind to be
turned and washed
ground and shaped
by wave after wave
time and tide
i took one shell
and ran a finger
along its smooth ridges
before it washed away
with one hand on my ego and
the other on my fear, the sense
of lost pride i once had is now fading–
thank God
no more nights spent in sleepless haze
worrying more and more.
no more studying to find my place.
my place is wherever i am
One looking in forever eyes.
One looking out for the other’s lies.
Time folding in creases, meeting
in folds. Nothing ceases
in it’s permutations.
Always moving away from center.
Always toward culminations
of the blind, the mute, the weary, the lame.
Hold on to what is held dear.
The machinations are the same.
Diving Deeper 