A complicated spot, this little ledge I am sitting on.
My legs swing out from under me, the street below
is busy with cars and buses and trucks and people...
Across from me are windows into offices, cubicles,
papers and fax machines, laptops revising articles
while the sun sets behind the granite structures
the rays haloing cityscape with gold-edged clouds.
In this space, small and unpredictable, I feel
a lift from within, the edge of me moving outward:
It is scary, this boundary opening wide into
arms and body under sheets in dreams before
sunrise, coffee, bagels, and sleepy-eyed hellos.
In those warm moments, close heartbeat echo
slumbering breath moving inward and outward,
I sink into the gentle rhythm calmed, comforted
by body and blanket heat, a hand encircles waist,
a soft pull of gravity into a cup of breathing warmth.
In morning the dream falls like autumn gingko leaves
when the weight of warmth wakens the body to flight,
knowing the dream relentlessly whispers a simple need.
Mornings move forward with meanderings to cold benches
beneath red maples, long footsteps on rain-soaked sidewalks,
folding into afternoons of the same motions, keys clacking,
papers printing, emails sent and received and responded...
all to lead once again to the same dream night after night.
This ledge is cold even in the wake of comforting illusions:
This lifted feeling waits for reality to awake into my dream
so waking from the warm cup of gentleness will not feel cold
when the sheets fall away shivering, autumn leaves falling.
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I have those dreams often lately, but not sitting on ledges overlooking cityscapes (but if in metaphor). Hrm. I wonder if this poem actually accurately portrays my thoughts on this. I think it might. Kinda random poem. I need to write the other 2-3 for the Lexington Lives series, not personal intimate yearnings.
D'oh!
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