Friday, August 4, 2017

This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Tipping Point
Oct 21 2009

Even the dog is listless,
flopped on the porch, her gaze in the distance,
her state of mind

The day is dull as paste
snow filling the space
descending, lifting
swirling uncertainly.
It is incessant,
yet the ground just glistens, wet,
the perfect temperature
for snow
as temptress.
How water, congealing
gives up its heat,
the tipping point
of thaw and freeze.

I am on the cusp, as well
floating in and out of dreams -
the incoherent visions of sleep,
the frustrated wishes
of desire, ambition

There are nightmares, and reveries,
but we speak mostly of dreams.
As if hope only comes
under cover
in fitful sleep.
As if a flat grey day
that reminds me of wet wool,
and old newspapers
under rubber boots
near the entrance-way,
can make them go away
for good.

As insubstantial as snow
in a wet October,
lightly touching down.

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