Visions of a Neighboring Nirvanah

She turns to him and asks, “Why do I always say ‘It’ first?”
He faces her bright eyes and replies, “Say what first?”

–Book of Life, Communication

 
The sun was never so bright,
nor as cold.  Uneasy frost
wearing heavy coats of tattered
remains; never remembering the taste
of a spring day or the sound of an
artist’s brush upon withered canvas,
that had, long ago, pulled from its frame.
Familiar streets spark memories of
long-haired cats rubbing overworked trousers,
somewhere below the knee,
tossed out and lost down a
rusty drain, waiting for
a coathanger and bubblegum partnership
to rescue them into small hands.
Salvation never rang so true to the
infectous sense of commitment that robbed
“that poor fellow”
and left him drying in the breeze.
Hope fled the scene with good report
to scour another soul clean
of yearning ambition,
too close to happiness, until it,
also, lie in the road like a twisted
can crushed by countless
uncaring vehicles of language.
In the midst, golden chariots enter
bearing showers of wasted words
and overlooked emotion. All dumped
in the street for those willing
to find,… in the
pile of gratitude, deep in the center,
the warmth to guide them
through their winter.

-E Hinton 10/22/91

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