syrena_of_the_lake

Fireworks are keeping me awake
this last night of the longest year,
shared misery bursting into shared joy.
Transitory. Fleeting. A flare
of light and echo of noise.
(Is that what these memories will be, someday?)

I picked up a pen to write this poem
and it had run dry.
This is true, although it could also be a metaphor
for my mental and emotional state
(which would also be true).
My hand cramps, unaccustomed to this work.
The ink is starting to flow
but who knows how long it will last.

I opened the nearest notebook to write in.
It holds other memories of older miseries and joys
no less all-consuming, no less fleeting.
It also holds a collection of leaves and feathers,
nature’s whispers jumbled between pages and poems:
paper-thin rose petals scatter among my worries,
a goldfinch feather adorns my dreams and mourning,
maple leaves still hold a ghost of color
alongside rambling descriptions
of the woods they came from.
Faded, wrinkled, crumbling and still full enough of life
to stir when I turn the page.

Someday, I will find this poem again,
the one marked with leaves and dry ink.
The rest of the context will either come rushing back
like autumn wind through the brittle trees,
or — like the bleached colors,
no longer maple-fire or aspen-gold —
the words will rustle vaguely in my memories,
and I will squint to make out the date
and wonder what I was going on about at such length
and whose woods these were,
with their castaway colors pressed between my poems.

Open notebook with faint writing, pressed leaves and feathers