It lingers long at first light
coddled by heavy hibernation
sidling awkwardly through
how cheerful sounds behind the muffle …but
certainty, it shelters so few things
It remembers the sad princess in the kingdom next door
how she wears a headdress made of stone
Come,” cold and bare, nimblest lumen
come you, seep
about the wheezing, dirty windows
Do not be dissuaded by the pits of kamikaze beaks,
there is a way in.
“Just come.”
(why makes no commitment, even so it is— more or less, respectively.)
It remains
in amniotic stoup tending what is not pretend
pretense gesticulates
but, as otherly gestures go
and go on forgiving forgotten sacrifices
they might well be the same
bow a head, it would encourage itself
cheer for yet and still
as we pledge anew again today
It waits unseen
slinking inky patience
afar afar where one imagines communion exists
It swells but not with great white crest
It rides my low and steady calm to gleaming shores
There you will kick up sparkling sands… draw treasure maps in the disappearing clay. Awash in your gloaming, I will litter the morrow with sea-glass dreams.
Pirates will not risk this port—endowed with jutting forms, feminine and falsely soft… the perilous kind known to woo and fell. 
It will not crash, this crest
not this time
It laps here gently at stone and sand, and will recede
It will not race
or nip the heels of would be eager
It does not goad
my hesitation
like a slow rip
at the elaborate elegance of a second-hand hem
(maybe it never did…
snare another’s toe)
but more than once colluded with my stumbling
clumsy shuffling feet in mother’s heels
the pink strappy ones she never wore
with plastic beads that chased would be fancy dances
like maraca snakes
this tale
It creeps, too
where a crevasse
has now broken through the seam
of a binding
whose trusted duty held us there
in temporary order
a task set in the age of proper care
is this paper? It must be
numbered, sewn
are these words?
aligned in perfect formation
tin soldiers off to a battle for Candyland
laying circular track for campaign trains
beneath a jolly tree …weeping needles into twinkle-lit hair
(aren’t these the simplest things?)
elementary fundamentals of arcane all along
ritualized for reason
are they?
letters like petals
still clinging to the whole
plucked and pressed between the pages of one dedicated verse
if it claimed a single breath
if it conceived of one last wish
upon a ladybug blanket
open wide beneath a bathing blue
under the cottony collage
of a meandering vagrant’s wind
It still smells of yellow meadow
warm and slipping loose in shades of
elusive musk
earthen hymn

of heartbeats keeping

petals, still clinging to the whole
desiccated and lingering
in once was
mumbling quiet-like
of acrid must and
in a sense
in a scent

who will show these things
this day who will show them next again

today we are gaining daylight
with a thin, trembling whisper
and a Yule tide wink.

© caitlin ann easter, 12.21.14
Happy Solstice: to all exquisite living persistence and to gaining daylight.
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