We are such sad creatures;
always pushing some one
thing that is important to us,
some grave weakness of ours
onto the world. We are so
frail. Unable to leave anything
the way we found it. Always
needing to alter and add a twist.
I have watched you make
your show in church. Being sure
to cross yourself just so - pleasing
the image you have made for
yourself to believe is you. I have
seen that look - the way you set
your eyes - in shark's eyes before
they strike the kill. A faint glimmer
of recognized guilt, and the remorse
passes like the krill on the wave.
Gone.
The forsythia has been fooled
into opening. The snows that
are yet to come - the ones she
cannot see or know about - will
freeze her tender flesh and melt
her back into the bark. Such a
price for delicate beauty.
It is curious - trying
to strike a balance.
24 February 1996
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