Spick-spack
It’s in these days awakening,
The inbetween of simple things,
A rusted penny flipped on air.
It winks, sparkling bronze, never
Landing. A circle closes itself.
Standing on the penultimate edge
Of elements suspended in twist,
It’s some mistranslated finale.
Sink or swim, a livid eternity
Speckled with living gold dust.
An albatross spins overhead
Steadfast in its grey endurance.
It will last, and it will last.
It’s in the offering of hands,
The sanding down of roughness,
A spick-spack rethink
And we return to the ether.
It isn’t a word or a familiar,
A play composed in one night.
We stand on ladders rising,
Peeking through cirrus wisps.
This is new. It isn’t new. It is.
We are here, and we always were.
Different names, circumstances,
But it is the same bleating sea,
The same blue sky staring down.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, July 25, 2020
It’s in these days awakening,
The inbetween of simple things,
A rusted penny flipped on air.
It winks, sparkling bronze, never
Landing. A circle closes itself.
Standing on the penultimate edge
Of elements suspended in twist,
It’s some mistranslated finale.
Sink or swim, a livid eternity
Speckled with living gold dust.
An albatross spins overhead
Steadfast in its grey endurance.
It will last, and it will last.
It’s in the offering of hands,
The sanding down of roughness,
A spick-spack rethink
And we return to the ether.
It isn’t a word or a familiar,
A play composed in one night.
We stand on ladders rising,
Peeking through cirrus wisps.
This is new. It isn’t new. It is.
We are here, and we always were.
Different names, circumstances,
But it is the same bleating sea,
The same blue sky staring down.
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