With less vigour comes deliberation.
Those things done, are hard done. Sitting comes to do.
Even the dust swirls more slowly in the quiet.
Golden in tangibility, in this
little room of light with walls and dimensions that has taken space within my room.
At my fingers’ tips.
I run them along the beam, stirring. Deliberately.
The weight of light on my fingers’ tips speaks exhaustion speaking life.
Some of it in this chair.
I hold the face of the light, like lovers hold their faces: cupped.
And like a lover, I bring my face to face the light.
The quality of Autumn: light in which no one dwells, but light touched.
Is vigour health? Or poison? With effortless actions come intoxications.
Vigour, madness? Untamed projection.
They died of cancer, in this chair.
An invitation to spring, to indwell, to be in others’ places.
Spring makes weeds of us all.
I blush for cold. Or anticipation of nakedness.
Skin paper, fired shades, longing for fire? Or writing?
We leave this season for judgement.
Leaves the colour of Revelation.
Virgil wrote one line evey day for ten years and died.
Although the years were different then.
When I am still I still am