Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Knitting Time


The Space Between

This can not be taught
and this can not be known;
the deep stillness of our being
the glass before it's blown

the spokes within the wheel
the empty pot, the seed unsewn
the block of wood 
~ that's not been carved
the jewelled, but empty, throne.

The pinpoint of existence
before the fire was spread
in ashes of our longing
~ the word, before it's said

the continent that is our heart
before the ocean grew
and moved us close together
in the space between the two.

Old Words

I found these old words
buried barely
in sands of time

the tide of days
brought them to me, polished
and made me think of
lilacs
and canyons
and a matchbox home
a claw-foot tub, big enough for two
when I thought I held your heart
in my hand
like a stone

Night Time Walkers

And there you are
pulling me
as I play like one helpless


because I love the pull
and I love that you are there

even when you are not

even when you are hiding

even when
you tip your gaze and shadow  all your longing

you follow me
I follow you

to the dark side
to the other side

and our mysteries 
hide like night time walkers

and there you are.


Photo credit Eve Aebi

Four Faces

Four faces of meaning
The season’s intent
The change in the stillness
The Winter’s lament
Fruit of Spring’s labours
In Summer’s ferment 
The deep into darkness
Of Autumn’s descent


Days march like words
That we never meant
And the clock reflects back
The time we misspent