I knew myself a swirl of ash
swept grayly by the wind
like wings, only without the bird,
like kites without their strings.
And I, who have been dead, tonight
I know myself the moon
with rings around it in the dark.
And I the darkness, too.
But I am also not the dark,
not moon, not ash, not kite,
not anything that can be held,
something beyond the lines.
I know myself a spilling thing,
a raveling, a leak.
Call it blessing, call it luck
the vessel as it breaks.
Love your wordchoice of, raveling.
Yes, you are the darkness; you are dark things—but what about the light, and things of light? Thou art those, too. (And…thou are not those things, too.)
Another dance with breaking open, with un-hiding.
(Oy! “…the moon/with rings around it in the dark.” _There’s_ the light.)
I love that second stanza especially, the dark within the dark. It’s a different kind of poem for you, I think, in that its so so full of image .
I like it, and that liquid ending just flows!
I like this myself as a spilling thing…..
(for I take many many a spill do I)