But now I only know I am—that’s all.
Hair is the dress that’s left out in the rain.
Bath is the elegant speed of the brain.
Blood is the treasury sprinkled with rice.
Tea’s that warm vowel in the heart of thin ice.
Arm is the lesson that will not be learned.
Smoke is the season that cannot be turned.
Bone is the road that leads out of the wood.
Bread is a word that’s been misunderstood.
Mile after mile is food left by the door.
Light is the bowl that’s washed up on the shore.
Dust is the handle. It breaks from the cup.
Dream is what’s left when the rest’s folded up.
(for Mary Meriam—2006)
2006 © R. Nemo Hill