Cold season, and I am reminded
of the fine organ one's skin is.
Oblations of hand sanitizer, in this
land of perpetually runny noises,
fire every nerve across crimson skin,
flaming knuckles notched as if by thorns.
Edging irregular cracks, rusty flecks
hint at capillary highways
we generally take on faith.
And yet, come summer,
that lovely suppleness will return,
bending and straightening
according to the life within,
in perfect forgetfulness.
of the fine organ one's skin is.
Oblations of hand sanitizer, in this
land of perpetually runny noises,
fire every nerve across crimson skin,
flaming knuckles notched as if by thorns.
Edging irregular cracks, rusty flecks
hint at capillary highways
we generally take on faith.
And yet, come summer,
that lovely suppleness will return,
bending and straightening
according to the life within,
in perfect forgetfulness.
Wonderful! I love the way you are able to take the mundane and see the holy.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Beth!
DeleteElena, your sense of sound, especially toward the end of the first stanza, is expert. The words crackle with life!
ReplyDeleteAnd suppleness is such a lovely word. I remember reading a monk who said that if our prayers don't lead to suppleness of spirit, we're doing something wrong!
And I echo what Beth says. Your poems do impart a sacramental quality to the things of this world. They are always occasions for joy.
Thanks, Tom! "Suppleness of spirit"--I like that!
ReplyDelete