I am as small as a star. Wait for me at the edge of that broken gate. I will be old now. And the answers in me will be gone. If there is a cane under my hand, it is made of wood. My hair as grey as a tree. And I shake in the wind like a mushroom. The stories stirring in me, they have grown quiet. And the rock I swallowed long ago is slippery as mud. I will be inside the crickets soon. And the tears in my heart will sing from the eyes of dandelions. Don’t worry so about what to inscribe on that chiselled stone. I go by many names. I want you to know I’m not scared anymore. Not of life, or death. Do you see my eyes? They are quiet as a lake. I invite you to swim inside the lake with me. The fear you are bearing, it is welcome too. And that acorn you’ve been carrying in your pocket, well, it’s ready to be buried. It’s best not to remember your lines anymore. But maybe we could just stand here for a little while. Watch the sun be carried away on the backs of ants. Our eyes nibbled on by stars.
~ Originally appeared in Arc Poetry Magazine 98
Carol Krause 