Chestnut chickadees chirp on cheerfully
Outside my dabbled desert dormancy,
But it’s deathly quiet, still
In this house.
If this pith still pined
By that briny’s beach
You’d be in, in due time
Shoulder shrugged with ice cream.
These days have been so busy,
And so abysmally dragging;
A prasarita padottanasana
With my tongue splayed out my mouth.
I’ve opened derelict doors
To find familiar spirits…
The blessed light now grants me
Faces to put to their names.
I’ve no ordnances in which to contend them—
No inherent honor, no pureness incased in sterling.
A lifelong lesson etched into dusty stone,
But perhaps my heart will serve; much stronger than I know.
This affects me like we bore the same blood.
This stings me like we respire twin debris.
But it’s deathly quiet, still
In this house,
Beneath the stable unpredictability.