Tinkling Symbols

Flowers in disarray; she had not washed her hair
in days. What is it to be mad and alone? Aloofness
tends to follow like bells jing from the cow’s throat.
Tie me up, the girl begs with her eyes streaming. I am
too frustrated with this freedom! Hope is like that final
leaf that will not fall. The approach of the cold cannot deter
it from clinging coarsely to the branch. What do you carry,
and where will you go from here? There are many ways
to say farewell, and none suffice! Give me the moon
before the sun: not all buds need to burst open.

Whatever friendships I’ve released are like puddles
of raindrops, the girl thinks as she walks uphill.
The idea is more romantic than the experience.
Filth is a relief; scrubbing and rinsing the grit feels
good. What is it to be impassioned? The girl bakes
three cakes for the dog, lion, and horse: an offering
to make up and put the calamity behind them. Can
we each get along and be kind? You do not need to
like each other, she says as she puts out the hose.
Water is the all-giving sustainer. Say you’re sorry.

Bombs and blasphemies, the war encourages the
disembodiment of the head from the heart. Each
side has split, and the mucus spilled contaminates the
seas and the sky. The girl devotes herself to one
question: where is the parallel line, the paradox,
between expansion and contraction? I want to make
up with all those I’ve hurt, she writes in her journal.
It is impossible to reconcile without the help of the
heart.

Heat! We have too much of it. Midnight is when
the spirits sing the potential for forgiveness.

I have become a sounding brass in a tinkling symbol.
(1 Corinthians 13:1)

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