I tell myself
there will be more light
still I don’t like it
this scent of old wood splintering
as the roof blows apart
*
my life packed
in boxes–the urge
to lose them
*
the orchards in us
not enough hands
to harvest all this ripeness
*
one heron
in great blue wings he gathers
the whole world
*
I thought I knew
who I was, then the bars
bent enough
I could slip outside of her
how many bars don’t I see?
*
sky so pink
I make of myself
an offering
I love these, Rosemerry.
2, 3, and 4, such a sequence in itself! I read the entire attempts and keep coming back to the heart of it, 2, 3, and 4, in that perfect order.
once again, i’m seeing such play in these. maybe because they’re “just” attempts? (seem more like successes than attempts, but anyway…)
of the six, the third seems the best of the lot. however, a small tweak?
“the orchards in us/not enough hands/ to harvest all _the_ ripeness”
more such “attempts,” please