poet
the archivist
The Archivist
Breath—
caught in the rafters’ dim lattice,
a leaf turns,
seasonless.
Dust,
a pale script
unfolding in the hollow of a hand.
Spines incline—
mute elders—
their gilt a slow
constellation.
No pen,
yet the air
breaks into lines,
each pause
a door
unlatched in silence.
Volume shut—
not ending,
but the echo
of a word
never spoken.
.
just saying
to breathe again
.
people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,
while remains a phrase or
a feeling drawn from wells
deeper than memory can
reach, or device can retrieve
much like thread-diving as
we scamper for posts buried
by traffic and flood posters…
follow, subscribe, or friend
buttons can only do so much
so we hang on to what we
have and hold dear, today
saving each precious moment
if bookmarked sentiments
are promises, all will be well
as we’ll boldly breathe again
.