Cleave
Despite the ruckus,
the iris of the heart is sleeping
brilliant,
miserable,
like a pine cone ignoring
the first snowfall, and the second,
and the third
as it anticipates the blaze,
perched on a branch like an owl
who is also,
by now,
laden with snow.
Is it because we remember
the blaze,
we're sure that it happened,
that we're willing to sleep
until we hear again,
long ago,
amid the chanting of the crickets
a crack of thunder:
Open.
Despite myself the iris of the heart
contracts
and the pupil cleaves
as if to drink
its fill of sorrow.
The pine cones have loosed their seeds
and starlings have carried them off by now.
These tears
my heart has loosed
barely feed this charred soil
before the iris stills again.
Like starlings,
that precious sadness
has disappeared
and god knows where the owls have gone.