to be becoming

there are places of confluence

of intersection

placess of mutual support

and places

that slow growth

until we move past

and looking back

at each

as a waystation

a place

in which we were negotiating

our path

looking back

at each

as a place in which

our intentions

were forestalled

altered

modified

halted

or sent

in an entirely unexpected direction

we can see

these places

as layers

that have over time

settled beneath the surface

of our experiencing

perhaps still affecting

our trajectory

our path

we are what we were

to be becoming

a place of silence

i have a strong sense

of passing through this place

in the life i am living as steven

but i know that i am not steven

well, not exclusively

not precisely

not only

i know that

steven is "i"

the first few layers

i also know

that unpacking the "i" of steven

you'll find a collection of maps

of the knowing of himself

as perceived by himself

and then also

as perceived by others

steven is a history of events and ideas

that have been borrowed

and assembled

to create something

that is

almost an object

as real as can be sensed by the senses

felt by the heart

and known by the mind

but pull all of that away

and put it

in the drawer

of the one great moment

and i bet that there's a silence

deeper than any winter woods

no tell-tale footprints left behind

whose stories can be tracked and told

no fluttering of the wings of worldly wisdom

no birdsongs of revelation

just a place of silence

~

i am the wind that wavers

you are the certain land

i am the shadow that passes

over the sand

italicized words excerpted from "i am the wind" by zoe akins

the wooden hill

the paint on the front door

is older than my eyes

pushing against the door's heavy body

i follow

the staircase's cautious winding

upwards

and away from the street

edward hopper stairway at 48 rue de lille, paris

moving side-to-side

i can hear the soft giving creak

and feel the curved metal edge

of each stair

my hands curl and

grip the thick softness of the railing

even as my tongue

draws thickly against

cracked dry lips

that crave nothing more

than wine

bread

and sleep

on the landing

the number seven

tilts slightly

on a red door

thick with age

the smells of cooked cabbage

and fish

swim grey and thin

in air long-yellowed

and tarnished

by hope long forgotten

pressing the key

into the lock

the handle turns reluctantly

admitting me through its dark frame

i am home

the frayed signposts

of a well-worn track

lead

toward the window

through which

i see snow

painting the softest pale-grey

light on the rooftops

pressing my lips to the window

i watch my breath

spread outwards like an island

on a glassy sea

gustav caillebotte rooftops with snow