The wind blows
through the doors of my heart.
It scatters my sheet music
that climbs like waves from the piano, free of the keys.
Now the notes stripped, black butterflies,
flattened against the screens.
The wind through my heart
blows all my candles out.
—Deborah Digges, opening lines to “the wind blows through the doors of my heart” from The Wind Blows Through the Doors of My Heart (Alfred A. Knopf, 2010)
Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.
Tell me some simple
talk … the talk a woman always desires
to be told. I don’t want the phrase
complete. Gesture is enough to scatter me in the rise
of butterflies between springheads and the sun. Tell me
I am necessary for you like sleep, and not like nature
filling up with water around you and me. And spread
over me an endless blue wing …
—Mahmoud Darwish, from “Two Stranger Birds in our Feathers” in The Butterfly’s Burden (Copper Canyon Press, 2006)
Pleasant was the journey homeward,
Through interminable forests,
Over meadow, over mountain,
Over river, hill and hollow.
Short it seemed to Hiawatha,
though they journeyed very slowly,
Though his pace he checked and slackened
To the steps of Laughing Water.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Song of Hiawatha (via gloomytreehouse)
This third day of desert snow is quieting
What words would be delicate enough
to dangle from lashes
to draw eyes to common sleeves of dark jackets
and kiss cheeks fresh bloomed
Today, I will choose them wisely;
they are too thin to hide behind
Today, the ghosts they hold
You say: evasive,
It won’t hold water,
A sieve vs. vase
vis-à-vis I’ve saved
all the best truths
for this (the truth) a
nightlong longing for
a night of lying
with you. I do the
next best thing: a glance
(glancing) (it contains
all I want to contain)
Forgive the shy, the away. If
truth be told, I can’t be true.
—Hannah Sanghee Park, “One Truth,” from Poetry Northwest (Fall & Winter 2013-2014)