What You Come To

Question the clouds
and they will whisper
even the air has its price,
and the wind sweeps hard
to know you.

Should you die young,
it will only mean you learned too much too quickly;
you would not keep
your eyes in a box.

Question the maple
and it will just say nothing.
How foolish of you to think
a tree could tell you what you want to hear.

If you life your blood,
bring it down again, slowly.

Question the body of a fish
washed onto the shore,
and you will find yourself
more alone than you have ever been.

If you break a finger trying
to reach someone,
that's good.
At least you moved.

Question the lines on your face
and you might make it back
to something you buried.

Loss has a voice in your body.
It says it would marry you
if you would listen.
It whispers it loves you in the silent hypocrisy of your sleep,
in the cleft of memory
as it slips,

in those moments
when you refuse yourself.

Don't.

Copyright © 2003 Eve Wood All rights reserved
from Love's Funeral
Cherry Grove Collections
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission