Sunday, January 7, 2018

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand

The weekend is like stepping into a glass ball
I decide I will be in the glass ball
The snow globe 
And the work days will not touch me
A melange of open ended questions 
The surface tension of water 
waiting to be broken 
I step through Friday 
It melts on me like gold
Proenneke alone in the wilderness 
Chipping impossibly perfect notches in a log
With a small axe and carving tools
Rolling the logs into their notches
To make a cabin
Having a “tin bending day”
The weekend is my Tin Bending Day
The Wissahickon River dressed in snow
the lady horse standing unphased 
with a black and pink plaid poncho
Tall and narrow colonial houses 
Like milk cartons made from stone