Dusty Presents
Will you open them for
me this year?
They’ve sat, undusted
for so long now.
Sometimes I forget,
trip over them,
curse them, then
remember you
and so I leave them
there.
I wrapped them so
carefully,
pictured your stubby
fingers struggle,
their violent
shivers from troughs of wine
ever
tormentors on the break of each day.
Will you open them for
me this year?
They’re lonely where
they are,
unloved, untouched,
waiting.
Through thick dust,
the odd shaft
Of light laughs out
from the gold ribbon.
I often think it’s you
laughing at my
clumsy attempt to get
along alone.
Three dusty little
boxes
for two years have
awaited a home.
Will you open them for
me this year
so I can set you free?
Wind back two
years and freshly hold me,
tell me all your
secrets again.
Through my living
fingers,
please visit and
uncurl the string,
unfold the
cold, dark cage I have been in,
let gold and silver
live again,
let snowflakes not be
tears.
Back -
Index