I
I love you in a state of repair,
In the midst of the sunniest day
While I take seeds and plant them,
Water them, my hands a carousel to their needs.
In night, tired and aware,
I love you still.
And I call upon the transient world to keep you safe,
Near and warm.
When cautioned with grief I love you still,
Buoyed by the joy of your presence
Awake through the magnets that pull my blood to pass,
Knowing of your softness, your whole.
And I do sit sometimes, I do wait for you,
Like a child searching for the perfect tree to climb,
Like a God alight with hope,
Like Sisyphus on his hill,
Knowing there is a moment when it all breaks away
And the only thing that remains is love.
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II
You mentioned once a point that your dad made
About the Catholic Church thinking about their existence in terms of centuries.
Sometimes when I wonder, when I plague fears upon the future,
I think of it all in terms of days
And find myself alight with worry–
What if I can count what is to come on one hand?
And then there’s you,
Thinking
In terms of eternity,
In terms of perhaps, the whole thing.
This is when I am not saved,
But given grace.
This is when I most truly believe.
We are both perhaps, just as foolish as the faithful,
Or maybe, just as strong as the faith.
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III
“I am certain of this,”
The sea crawls forward upon this portion of the sand
Presses its fluidity, its tongue to the shore,
An envelope sealing
“What I mean to say is,”
No time to write an address,
She has already gone
With a hesitation pulled the envelope open again,
To rewrite, rephrase, spend more time alive
“I think I have said it all now,”
And to grow tired, as one always does
Placing a kiss upon the sand, the paper,
Willing the glue to stick this time
“Yet there is likely more,”
But to no avail
No conclusion at all really
There on the sand, just as on the hill and in the bedroom
Some god says this is what you are condemned to
This fate of constant open / close
The lungs telling you this all of the time
The heart singing this very song
And yet, aware that once you opened for the first time,
And that you will find a perpetual close
Perhaps learning, forever, of the cycle of life and death
This language, built on the harbour
With the sights of the sea unknowing of equilibrium
One cannot be one thing all of the time
“I know a God,”
And he does not ask you to be
Only pushing you to keep things at bay and linger a little longer on the shore
Kicking up sand and pretending that this time
You will run into the open waters.
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IV
In the summer we build castles
Born of soft brazen granules
This could be glass
But time passes softly, quickly,
And sand sinks again to the ground.
Come winter, on time and perfect,
Aware, maybe, of the clauses that govern,
Of the innocence of the first mourning;
The death of the year.
Building with clothed hands men from soft snow,
Adorning their chill with things that keep our skin warm,
Watching them stand like structures of spirit
Only to melt away.
On the beach in July
We want to stay forever
And make ourselves a home.
A castle with a moat and a bridge and a thousand soldiers keeping safe what is worthy of protection.
The first day of spring,
And the only snowfall of the lonely winter.
Perhaps we want to build a friend out of that pale grief,
Perhaps we take your branch and give the final touch,
A handshake,
To leave what has come to pass,
To gift company to something that was cruel and desolate,
Or really just an innocent thing dying.
All your sorrow and all of your pain will melt away now.
You can start the plans for the pergola and the patio.
WORDS: Ella Flynn
