3/52: other days

The winter sun is white and blinding
but gives no hint of what it is feeling.

My toes are numb, the cold seeping up
through the leather from the pavement.

Head down against the generous wind,
hands deep in pockets

I think of other days and other places.

2/52: made new, again

The trail's rocks and roots and worn dirt
are blanketed with snow

pressed unevenly flat by boots and skis
dog paws and deer hooves. 

This is a place entirely different
from what it was in the fall 

when the leaves had papered the way; 

from the summer 

when the deer flies relentlessly pursued us;
from the spring 

when the melt made primordial mud. 

So there you are now,
the winter sun white and low
bitter wind on your cheek
in this place made new, again.

1/52: the heart is a relative instrument

the heart is a relative instrument:
it bends time
like Einstein.

the heart thrums out
a bass line of ancient grief
that bubbles up unbidden
like oil in the sands,
the buried remains of a life from
a thousand thousand years ago.

the heart is riddled with worm holes
(this heart)
and time is curved around
like your forefinger and thumb
creating a pincer
across which memory leaps.

the heart is a relative instrument
and it plays this song forever
and also only for a year.

audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/the-heart-is-a-relative-instrument