, , ,

I am studying the structure
of that unyielding,
that part of finally belonging
that still refuses to lay
its head on the foreignness
of the Western sky or call
the yearning for tulips
Your name dancing in
a snow-covered courtyard,
where name has somehow
become interchangeable
with purpose,
and somehow more
infused with power.
I still stumble on my purpose
sometimes; my name
is written on the back
of my hand. I traverse
the city as if aimlessly,
like a palm reader tracing
a wizened finger along places
where purpose is supposed
to ripen into destiny,
if destiny could be
set in flesh,
I’m not completely sure.
My own flesh burns
for the absent flora;
outside it, the Western sky
holds questions in
cryogenic suspension.
I am looking at that,
the lifelines and creases
on the open palms
of being, and being here.
The name in the churchyard,
unnoticed, getting
its feet wet and leaving
transient indentations,
mantras on the fallen snow.
It is the facade of any
holy structure,
it can be faith
in anything
until you actually enter
and talk to somebody.
We are all just
damned for something,
saved by someone,
the other way around.
Religion is no longer only
a vessel to forgiveness,
evolving through seasons
and migrations into
the place where you might
hope to find a heart that
sees the structure
of your unyielding.
When the soul isn’t home
and refuses to settle.
Marking time
as it counts down to spring.

“Amber & Oliver, Banff Elopement”
by photographer Darren Roberts


You might also like:
(Note: The thumbnails don’t work on the WP app, only via browser.)