The soft clutter of our buried feelings is a fine compost for rage.
There will be time to find the roots of it
in the deep pile of rot that nourishes complexity.
Grief waits, patient and stealthy.
I sit in quiet joy
under trees that show the subtle bronze
of late September sun
and sip my wine
and read of a young man soothing a panicked horse
with touch and song.
My tears are sudden and mysterious.
Some link with youthful grace
lost and turned to squalor
has touched my memories,
quickening the dead.
My thoughts have no edges.
They drift and pulse with feeling
expressing the ineffable.
But words are trickier, edgy,
their precision perilous and boundaries deceptive.
They pin and limit,
only seeming to express the inexpressible.
Voiced with gesture, eye to eye,
my thoughts, truncated, may emerge.
But pinned on paper,
the mind's expression drifts away
leaving small traces of logic and longing
for you to decipher.
© Jenni Gehlbach 2010