Tuesday, April 20, 2010

the thaw

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Once upon a time, there was a writer who wrote because she had to and not because she was getting paid. She wrote for love, for free, for free-dom. Then she got lost. Life happened. A lot. The muse fell silent. Mid-life approached. Fears and anxieties and memories mounted and she nearly crumbled under the pressure. Then she turned 46 and her vision began to return. She opened the release valve, stopped taking herself so seriously, lightened up however she could, and poked around the edges of her own life. Amazed, she found she was still alive. The muse began to waken. Thoughts began forming, at first a trickle then a stream. Words began to unfold in her mind. And, at long last, a Poem emerged.

Hopefully the first of many....

I Burned Them, All
I burned them, all
The cards, letters, pictures of you
Thoughts and memories caged in journal lines
I thought you would
Float away with the ash
As the pages crackled and blew through the suburban night, all
Those miles and years ago
Two verses remained
Treasured and spared and underestimated
Tucked safely away
With childhood notes and banal essays
Dead, I thought,
But dormant only
Until removed carelessly, complacently
From hiding
Falling to a fertile patch of soul
Setting root
Vining across my brain
With delicate tendrils
And heady blooms
Tall as clouds
I dare to climb
Giants may be there
Golden harps also
The siren call of ancient rhyme
Heart beats fast when air is thin
A softness falls against my face
Too hot for snow
Ah, cinders on a forgotten wind
Far down this creeping stalk
Another calls

(c) 4/19/2010  Cynthia Y. Carver-Futch

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