(Poem written in response to Mara Eastern’s Poetry 101 Rehab: End)
when does a day start?
with first light–the cold absence of both heavenly bodies up above; the blink of an eye, a heart’s: take me back to the willows, the woods, the calm beneath my mind.
then the needle starts coursing right, an unbreakable habit, counting down; birds chirp as they jump sideways on one leg, a ray of sunshine on the back of their heads, on the corner of our eyes, peaks small as timid toes sink onto the ground, with a cry, a whistle, a singsong of fright (of love or of light):
how does an hour,
two hours towed away
become a day?
when does it end?
is it with the blemish of the clouds, shied away the possibility to find warmth, to feed the ground, seeds sprouting out with a touch of might? back to the slumber, down to the woodlands: timber falls to the soil, no sound, just wings fluttering, crumbling pages, gusts a whisper on leaves–silence…
as the needle proceeds, unforgiving, to the last quarter: ever-growing silver in the dark, horns to the north, cries the winter goodbye, thawing seconds drip on our skin
with a bell, a chime, one millimetre’s further turn of the earth?
are night and day so envious of each other that they can’t coexist?
when does a day end?
when do my words
my mislaid thoughts?