A Deep Cup
Every
breath is an act of defiance,
and each
thought an undertaking of reclamation
because your
words weave through,
like Kevlar
and super-strength cordura strands
bolstering moth-eaten
wool and well worn, faded
canvas duck
to itself anew,
keeping life
and body from a brink too often
imagined in
this twilight between day and night…
When sawdust comes off as dust, it’s
not good
and each wee blade needs be sharpened
so that formerly diaphanous and gravity-defiant
comes off as
shavings, chips, and leaves lungs and
eyes
to their normal business
and logs cut like butter, or at least
like thick crusted bread-
then work goes well, back don’t twist
and strain,
and I think, “Is that all it takes?”
So your voice remains through it
all,
with offered thanks, praise, science,
and laughter,
Like divine hope or stew or some
blended dessert wine
from a deep cup of your own make
and under a sky of violet blue,
yellows, and cherry blossom pinks
I know well and good from these
twilight skies
as portent and joy or, sometimes,
the loss of will in the face of
inevitable darkness
and the eternal views away from our sun-
but really, you always make it good
again, so we’ll sleep well tonight.
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