Unravelling and weaving, sometimes simultaneously

Gilt

It’s a warm wind
for November,
pushing the curtains back
from the open window,
rattling the bamboo chimes,
tinkling the others.

The clouds scud past,
rushing somewhere,
shadowing the dance
of the pin oak’s branches.

The sun is persistent.

Now and then a bright wave of light
seeps through both cloud and curtain
and lies sentient on the floor
almost to my feet…

nearly
close
enough
to reach me.

There are reasons
I am not immune
to the cold.

The golden glow
teases me
with the possibility
of unseasonable heat
reaching
withdrawing
again and again.

I can move into the beam
if I choose.

I can stay here and know
that my bare toes
would enjoy the spot
warmed before me.

I listen to the chimes
and a far away siren.

The wind has died down
and the sun is winning
one inch at a time.

It will
reach me
even if I am too stubborn
to reach
for it.

(c) RCGA 2014

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