I return to say that I wrote that poem, however since only my husband is reading these blogs, I suppose it is silly of me to do so, because he knows that I wrote it. I told him. On the other hand, I am nursing a secret hope that maybe some other person could stumble across this space and read my poem and wonder whether or not I wrote it. I did. :-)

The first reality

what comes out is the line
she traces along the inside
of me though her touch is inevitable, to say that
perhaps destroys its beauty (for Some)

my life will be erased by those hands
the ones that Some would call
dead. Would call rubber. In the mornings it is
always the same, I am awoken from nightmares

by touch, I have been beaten all night, or drenched
in salt (preserve my hands) and the sun rises
and the raspberry leaves beckon
me into the kitchen

...although not soo contagious today. I had to go outside in the cold dreary, which does NOT inspire me to dive in to the mood of melancholy that is this day. I suppose it isn't Thursday and that is why but no one should make excuses for bad weather, so I'll stop there.

The lime, electric green of the April sea
off Ischia
Is just a thumb-rub on the window glass between here and there:
And the cloud cap above the volcano
That didn't move when the sea wind moved;
And the morning the doves came, low from the mountain's shadow,
under the sunlight,
Over the damp tops of the vine rows,
Eye-high in a scythe slip that dipped and rose and cut down toward the
sea;
And the houses like candy wrappers blown up against the hillside
Above Sant'angelo,
fuchsia and mauve and cyclamen;
And the story Nicola told,
How the turtle doves come up from Afric
On the desert winds,
how the hunters take the fresh seeds
From thheir crops and plant them,
The town windows all summer streaked with nameless blooms.

The landscape was always the best part.

~Charles Wright, The Southern Cross

I wish I could rebegin at the actual beginning, instead of fostering some false desire to write the first things that come to my mind. they have come and gone already, although no one realizes it (besides myself and maybe tabitha). The rain outside inspires me to feel differently than I wanted to when I woke up, but of course...the rain always wins that battle and I find myself slipping into the dreary tranquility of the morning, with no desire outside of apathy. I feel like Charles Wright, perhaps, just before he composes some of his blue poetry.