Sisyphean
There was a time in my life
When I was the seagull, swallowing
Skin shed from all the flightless nights,
Sleepless nights. And everything
Seemed to resonate on the tips of my wings.
Then you came and laid a cold hand
On my head, fever nearly breaking my bones.
“Come on home,” you whispered,
“the oaks are miserable without you.”
And with that you returned to your home of leaves,
Made your bed with bees, and ate berries and seeds.
Meanwhile, I mended thirty pounds of weathered
Wings of all colors. I had been at the edge of the town,
Reattaching the chords and breaking the boards.
Carving wood had never been a hobby of mine,
But I carved ten trembling towers that day.
You rose to your feet, as I rose to the top of the heap.
Dusting off the dangling beads, you wrote
A piece about the stars, and the sky, and the clouds.
Then I cried, fell to blistered knees and wept
For each word and rhyme that tickled my ears.
Penitence is it, Sisyphus?
I’d gladly clamber up that horrid hill
With you, only you.
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