A Capella
Hiro Boga | June 13th, 2010
SUNDAY POEM
A CAPELLA
My life is bread-making.
Daily I work the dough.
My hands blend, shape it
into supple balls and then
I wait for your sacrament
of warm brown flour, sea-salt
water, a sprinkled
benediction,
to expand in me,
dissolving this mass
becoming
a fine leavening.
As always, I’d love to hear your own poems, visions, dreams and doodles in Comments. Let’s share the heart’s delight of poetry together.
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So beautiful. I’m going to have to print this one out and put it up on my wall.
——
Much like the willows
beneath my window, I bend.
But I will not break.
I am a child of my mother’s dreams
I wonder what she dreamed of
when she was my age
I hear the soft whisper
of forgotten dreams
as they float along the night breeze
I see brief glimpses
out of the corner of my eye
I want to know them better
these dream-wraiths
to ask them who they would have been
I pretend not to notice
when my mom enters the room
trailing the silent tears
of dead and dying dreams
I feel the weight of their sorrow
tempered by the eternal hope that
someday
they may be rediscovered
reborn
I touch them gently
for fear of shredding their fragile forms
and dispersing them into the ether
I worry that someday
I too will wander
in the haze
of forgotten and discarded dreams
I cry quietly in the dead of night
awakened from a dream
too beautiful to speak of
I understand my mother’s sadness
as she plucks wistfully
at the dreams of her youth
I say to her “Be brave,
be bold,
it is not too late!”
I dream of a day
when she may be surrounded
by the glowing warmth
of dreams fulfilled
I try to believe