poem #1

by Leonie Dawson on April 26, 2007



Last night I crept outside

into the darkness of the backyard
and lay still for a while.

Breathing just breathing.

I whisper into the soul of the earth,
and I listen, and I hear,
and we commune together so insistently, consistently, assuredly,
that I began laughing, and the soul of the earth laughs with me.

They show me what forgiveness looks like:
two hands releasing a white dove.
I bet if you just clutched and grasped and held that white dove
it would shit all over you, and peck and scratch.
Better to let it go, I think.
White doves were born to fly.
So are hearts, and forgiveness.

Last night I fall asleep in moonbeams,
and I slumber like a fairy,
only waking to mumble:
I must remember this.
I must remember this.

In the dreaming land,
I see my father, and he is smiling and laughing and young.
For the first time I really see him,
and it is a beautiful thing indeed.