(Song of Songs)
March 2025
A silence entered me; I was not alone.
I wanted to eat of a book, the book mine
but not to own, I watched you, your
paws shredded in the green grass below me (my rock), clover,
two yellow flowers crushed beside,
(me) on the cement.
A Crow arrives without song, loud in body,
no notes.
I cloud and stack myself tall above the hill
to remind you
who I am. It rains. I am the rain.
I cannot go in.
I: reintroduce myself to you
as a bright pale pink blossom; we know
each other well.
Anciently, I am the maiden of Shir Ha’Sharim and
you are Solomon. Or you are her beloved and I,
the psalmist king.
Presently,
I do not carry a canvas
and you will know when you are home.
In Yerushalayim, I watch the meaning of fire and water change
as I dance.
You watch me in the Mojave.
Your thirst not slaked but nearly.
Your thighs touch my blood.
I hope that when you know that you are home,
it will be because
you see me. When you see me,
paint spills,
the juice of pomegranates.
✳