sans definitive substance

 
you ask me who I am and to please 
explain myself and
I have no answer that would
satisfy your need for definition
my boundaries have all melted
and I will not, can not mold myself
into whomever you wish me to be
at this moment

I know no moment from the past
that might serve as touchstone
and no light shines far enough
into my tomorrows
to assure you or me
of my configuration in
a form we might recognize

water flows freely
through me
and suns rise and set
in me without hesitation
the pull of tides
the threads of moonbeams
the roar of thunders
and lightning jagging
across my tissue and bone
ignite the undulation of my coursing blood 
and my living breath
my mortal flesh has burst open

there is no container for
I AM

- pb 2011 -

                                                                                                                                                                                                   
                                                                                              
                                                                                                                                                                                                

I’m still wearing winter
these waning days of May


not the winter of woolen layers
and snow boots and scarves, rather
the winter of inside spaces
of spicy chicken tortilla soup
of hot cocoa with whipped cream
of juicy pies and cobblers

of late nights with Anna Karenina
or Dante or Michener
of mending and knitting
and writing long letters

I’m wearing the winter
of contentment
of peaceful rest
of long walks on empty beaches
before summer people arrive
of preparing hard ground for abundance
of catching stray demons
and releasing them

with a sidelong glance at my reflection
in my full length mirror
I find wearing winter 
quite becoming


- pb 2012