Poetry

Gordon Walmsley

Emerald

A poem says many things
in one way. You may even thank me
for slipping an elastic ribbon through a loop
in your waistband as you ran off into the forest
of mirrors. You were not always pleased
with what you found there—something
brought you back. It wasn't the elastic, though.
You were wise enough to cut that loose. You returned
on your own. And in your silence you were perfectly free
and stubborn.
But you came back.
That was the main thing.

I had an arsenal ready
about Jacob and his angel.
I never used the great tale
for private purposes.
We move nations and seas
with the gift of words. Pray
that we may use them wisely,
with good intent.
And as for you, strange muse, you have crawled up
into me, and are sleeping somewhere.
I can feel you in the place of quiet breathing.
There, where you curl up within,
protecting the hidden
stone.