A warm scrap of early Spring invades the back end of winter.
I’m holding together with heavy stitches,
marine stitches that keep sails from shredding –
nothing is that simple:
I dress and make way for the day
like some bosun scouring a fractured hull
(beached hard, so many years along),
corroded into fractals of concussed metal.
A voice of broken woodwinds carps pointless
orders at itself in the preternatural moist breeze;
nearby boscage bristling in a high tide of spring trade wind
howls my hope for a few salvageable moments of clarity.
or maybe not;
maybe just a blight of bubbled paint
on a resurfaced image in sharp daylight
in a false Spring thaw.
Clawing around in every direction
for a nascent timberland
abundant with heaving trunks, mottled sky, and earthy smells,
to snap into focus
a solar blaze of insight;
or even just to hear or see
a cursory ground of sensation:
a restorative practice,
calibrating my own psychogenic compass.
I am, by nature, self-instructive,
sparking weaving branches, deep breathing
rough air, self-generating psyche,
solid in rotting forest carpet.
It all grows, to me.
Cardinals and geese
on the prow of my vessel/self –
a sight I behold in an unnatural spring
dressing me in sensation,
constructing me in a spindrift
of melting snow and heavy waves
melding monads, pieces of mind,
where sky and sea touch the ground.