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

every window a wall, every wall a window

norman clark from an upstairs window

i am

sent outside

to play

on this dove grey sunday morning

even the sun is cold

behind me my mother

watches from the upstairs window

her sight of me

framed by

cream and butter yellow curtains

filmed with coal soot

and soft with dust

.

i like to let my sight of the world

be framed

by the garden walls

each moss-coated brick

has stories

of migrations

flowerings

fairy tales

but even the walls are silent

caught

like me

in the hollowness

of this day

.

the ground is frost hardened

and tumbling with hummocky grass

if he were still here

it would have flattened

under the weight

of his lawn roller

each blade

would have known the sharp snick of his shears

.

the sudden flapping of wings

draws my eyes skyward

where tendril branches

grope across the grey expanse

each in search of its opposite

the wind is the music for a sort of dance

and i find my own arms and legs

waving and flailing

until

self-conscious i stop

and slowing my breathing

pat the dog's head

he looks at me

with orange-brown eyes

as if seeking something

i think that if he could speak

he'd explain so much of all of this

.

the cold finds its way past my clothes

so i turn and open the door to the shed

inside

the darkness is comforting

a single window leaks light

onto workbenches

furred with shavings

the sweet smells of cedar

and machine oiled metal

weave in orange and blue threads

i sit on the floor

and think of my father

and my grandfather

they worked here

they both dreamed of the inexplicable immensity

of this place

this world of worlds

within and without

bisected by the single thin thread of work

sitting on the floor

of the wooden shed

i sit still and listen

to the sounds

rising from other gardens