not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Monday, May 2, 2011

being alive, a celebration

like a lover, like a flower, like a bell, like the first time you control your fingers,
like a feather, like a mother's neck, like the page, like the first time you think the word beautiful,
like an acorn with its cap on the trail, like a hawk in the sky, like cool pudding,
like a quiet morning, like the mist, like a hot rock in the summer, and in the shade a snail,
like cedar, like presents, like laughter and no chin, like a nail,
like a hammer and an arm and a sail and a puddle and a day and no clock,
like a sheet, like a thunderstorm, like a ditch and rubber boots and a pail,
like a kiss, like a filament, like almost closed eyes, like light seeping in,
like a tent, like a fire, like frogs in wet ditches, like sleep in the back seat,
like a trail through the forest, like new bare feet, like fresh baked bread, like music,
like the arms of your father, like finding your feet, like running like the wind,
like fresh clean skin, like a scripture, like a truth, like absolution, like being alive,
like this poem.