September 10, 2013

pears on a windowsill

The visiting writer told us this was the title she used for every piece
that didn't yet have a name. I couldn't imagine a more eloquent collection of words,
began stealing the phrase when my own stanzas tumbled and their unifying call
eluded me. For years, I'd tuck fragments inside this chrysalis of syllables,
not just poems but tattery moments that thrashed, untethered and unspeakable.
My heart, sliced ragged by love, nevertheless glistened in that glass, 
the afternoon light pouring in. How those sweet words saved me, gave the damage
a canvas that both contained and unleashed its beauty. Even now, when the clouds cast
their metaphoric pall, I turn to the image of ripe fruit, a wooden frame, a latch that yields
only when I am ready to open it.