The World Yesterday

The hurt doesn't go away
despite the passing of the day:
indifferent to the moon
traversing the sky at night
after the sun has taken flight.

It hurts remembering
and this backwards thinking.
An intense heat.
Even the buds opened from the bright day
making it feel like yesterday.

The hurt doesn't go away.

Then, when the rain had
fallen in a summer shower, carrying a myriad
of the flowers scent;
then, when the swooping birds at play
held me silently, dumbfounded by the day.

What can I say about the world yesterday?
The hollowness hurts.

The bruised bark of the tree,
suffering, reaches above me.
A starless sky.
The stillness of air is suffocating,
when it's suddenly battered by a wind that's biting.

Don't

Don't -
don't console me
that way you try
with sad knowing eyes
and a questioning, quick shift of your lips.

Don't -
don't console me
and hold me close
so I can hardly breathe:
suffocating and choking my tears on your chest.

Don't -
don't console me
with a stroke and tap
and grip and grasp, with fingers that grate
like sandpaper they shred my sensitive spirit.

Don't -
don't console me
and think those atonal words
you offer can change anything
(if I hear the dry, dreary drone at all through my torment).

Don't -
don't console me.
You try: you touch and speak
too much to nothingness, to a shell,
echoing your efforts out to sea - words wandering amongst the waves.

Window

Her sadness was double,
it had two edges.

One looked out -
at a budding cherry tree,
and corrugated roofed
barns, and a road,
and fields turned up
like churned feelings.

The other stayed in
to see
her thoughts unwravel
and her lines
all wrinkle
in the lit up mirror.

Both were torturous.
If they met they
made a window.

'Look at life!' cried the pane.
'Look at the clarity of your vision!' cried Mother Nature.