Moving across my face.
My face falling,
Like crumbling mountains.
And each corn of sand
Dancing like standing stones,
Trembling in shared solitude
To hear your voice.
Like the moon forever kindling,
Casting one blind and one seeing eye.
Like the sea, coming and going,
A mirror pool of reflection,
Where from the deep it grows,
Rippling through the ocean,
Calling water to water,
One salty drop to another,
Does it look like
Twelve coloured pictures on a wall,
And 52 pages with numbers to call?
And is it a circle divided by four,
Showing cardinal points, the elements and all?
Two lists of people come with the tide,
Of those just born and those who died.
But maybe a year’s a butterfly,
A rose, a twig, a yellow leaf,
Or shows itself as yet
Another wrinkle in my face.
It looks just like a bag of tears,
And like a secret sold.
Looks like a child, a man,
A woman, young and old.
It’s also in the many smiles,
Returned a hundredfold.
And when I pass a mirror
And catch the person’s eye,
I see that I’m the year, that I am life.
© jsmorgane (June 2010)