Thursday, April 9, 2009

National Poetry Month: Day #9

What is it about ancient things, worn and crusty, that so appeals to us? Why do we scour antique shops and garage sales for other people's junk? I can't remember what doo-dad or thingamajig inspired this poem back on April 6, 2005, but I'm sure it was a treasure:


It starts with the smudge,
a careless caress,
an accidental embrace, trace
evidence of something between magic
and magnetism.

Then comes the darkness, the memory
of breath like tropic winds
painting swirls and smoke
along the delicate curvature
of that which is exposed.

Then the tick-tock, tick-tock time
of no reply, no sign,
no dancing lights from beach
to bower to bed.

Now rediscovery, a gentle nudge,
the polish of thumb on brass,
the breathless agony
of unlocking the genie
and knowing these wishes
must be good.

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