Cold walls

You are there

the night your blanket

as the muffled sound of slumber

creeps in from under the door.

A door you’ve looked at for years.

Breathing you’ve heard for a lifetime.

Now both are strangers

even though you cannot make them speak why.

And now they are joining me for yoga

I saw you in that traditional place –

the bathtub –

small and crawling,

trying ever more feverishly to cling to the sides.

But every eight steps saw you slip and fall;

I could bear to watch it no more.

 

With shaking hands I picked you up,

placed you on the windowsill

and said farewell.

 

I thought no more of you

until a cousin

hitched a ride on my leg.

It was hot and the ground warm,

so I suppose I was the logical choice.

 

Transportation in a breeze.

 

And more recently, another friend

of yours

joined in with my morning yoga;

my back arched in cobra position

and they splayed out fully.

I wondered who would win.

 

Sensing my surprise, they scurried away.

 

I thought that was the end of the visits,

but in writing this,

approval had to be met,

so on the wind came another

ready

to notate the ink

with swift legs.

Pruning practices

I can see the roots

growing in the corners

of your eyes,

under the ground

where you think no-one will find,

and in my veins.

Oh, you hope

to hide from me, but

you don’t know

I can look inside myself.

I can cut you out

if I want to,

like a weed.

I can leave you to wither.

Would you like that?