Another Day

Another day arrives.

The sky thinning sheet of light.

A name I once held close

becomes soft urns of memory,

set adrift beyond remembering.

The wind keeps the tales I murmered to it,

carrying them through bowers,

bearing them beyond the hills.

It scatters what I spoke

into the high, ungoverened sky

where nothing mortal lingers long.

A tempest brews within me,

longing wild and unmastered, 

caught in heaven's restless wheel.

They spool together in the leaves,

whirl with dust and water,

with dissolving time.

A cloud passes, its shadow brief,

a shrug of the heavens.

Tomorrow will come of course.

It always does:

indifferent, punctual,

offering no assurances

but its own arrival.

My mind becomes my realm now,

a silent cloister of star-lit kingdom

he does not know the hurt.

How could he?

He only asks why,

as if truth were simple,

as if hurt unwind themselves

when summoned.

I cannot move beyond,

for only spring commands

the frozen wheels of change.

Not every tale requires a witness. 

Some truths prefer their quiet sleep,

wrapped in the dusk of the soul

like blossoms blooming

only after moonrise.

Bare skin, bare sorrows.

The soul stands unclothed before its past.

In the chambers where echoes dream,

the spires above them

sing with hollowing wonder,

a hymn for what endures.

Yet this fragile calm

is my chosen peace.

A gentle solitude,

a twilight gathering

its own small grace.

I choose it.

It is all my spirit knows.

And perhaps 

in some unpromised dawn

when the earth grows warm

and the winds remember mercy,

the old sorrows soften.

And I may let a little light in,

just enough 

to see the road again.