night- still but roaring

"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood." TS Eliot


the night is still but roaring a fire i cannot extinguish
strains of beethoven expand as wind rises --or does the air
eat the music--no one knows, yet feels a  poetry

about to compose itself--so long it has been sitting
on shadowed damp steps leading to broken cellar doors
so long to shattered glass --even replacing with stainless

makes for a rattle crash, while simply tapping at the door handle
metal always strikes me as colder than wood, however long
the tree had fallen--however long the winter seems to stretch out

in paisley  pajamas--celebrating the right to do nothing- blessings
become orchestrated- feelings swelling--neither being able to fight
back or find another path, we walk back to back down opposite sides

of the mountain--meeting at the base for peace talks lasting the night
and into the morning freshness--birds belong where they wish--never
interfering with what you or i had in mind to message--just more

melons floating down the river--seeds cascading inside the flesh
just waiting for an ample spring morning to plant
and wait some more for nourishment

to feed the masses begins with simple
planning--and then we step
lightly away from expecting

another blessed thing
it's all happening
when we trust

without fully knowing
eyes burning bon fires--furnishing
outdoor palaces to spring up

over night without a fight
we ascend the garnet gates
cedar shakes in still waters

Kate Lamberg
11/30/12