Old Notebooks

She danced
In the shadows of the mountains
Up and down the long front room floor
Just as she breathed
She danced

She understood things she couldn’t explain
She knew the significance of things
Whispered on a deeper level
Almost, but never
Spoken
Nearly, but not ever
Revealed
Silent
Secret

She understood the sweetness of the marrow of life
She grasped the balance of time
She knew that Now was forever
She knew that Now was forever lost
She knew that Now could be saved
Distilled into something almost real
Preserved in glass bottles that
She knew enough to call
Memory
She knew that memory is an essence
A whisper, a shadow, a ghost
Whose footsteps are sometimes
Dipped in ink

She sought words
With her eyes unfocused
With a pen between her teeth
A suspended, ecstatic
Dance of desire
Then in a ritual
Ancient and tangible,
She put ink to paper
Caught those words
In nets of thought
Preserved them there
In webs of wonder

In the shadows of the mountains
She wrote
Just as she breathed
She wrote
She filled page after blank page
With essence
With marrow
With something almost real
That she knew enough to call
Life

Wide ruled
Spiral bound
Still they hold
Sweet secrets
Suspended shadows
Sacred
Silence


©Edwina Peterson Cross