the gift

Antigone,  1941, Mark Rothko 

for my friends who blog their poetry


in that quiet temple of night
or early morning with birdsong
the listless spirit descends
bends her bow, holds her breath
and releases her pearly arrow

the piercing of the heart
opens up old wounds
removes the sutures one by one
numerous threads you've counted on
to keep you safe and still

now widened by a mile and
soaked to the core with
demon tears to unleash a storm
and press you into chanting what
you had hoped to keep quiet

now everywhere and nowhere
the uneven beating, retreating
searching for random signs
then diving into murky waters
where words and time entwine

and for one brief moment
in vagrancy of thought and
broad despair replete with
sudden death and longing for
another life to complete it

the final poem perhaps
one last stab of the muse's
now irrevocable dart to lull
to chill, to harden, and finally
to inspire birth

the poem child antigone
flung in the face of the world
truth and consequence
fidelity unto death
and your legacy born bitter fruit

what more could you want
than this struggle and birth
what more can there be
but you alone in your room
lead on paper, bleeding

you've been given the world
and then cursed to grieve for what
you cannot say with words
and yet be grateful for the gift
for this is what you get

loneliness
clarity
charity
pain and
death

and then it's over.