Saturday, December 4, 2010

Eighth Birthday - A poem

Eighth Birthday

in the photograph I am leaning over,
thrusting air from my lungs
as hard as an eight year old can

even then, my arms tightly
held against my chest,
ready just in case

eighth birthday; the last
number of candles
without the feeling of absence

or maybe this is how
it has become in memory,
a single point among many

as if I had become a Seurat landscape
and everything that had once been fluid
now stood, frozen

so that the naked eye,
desperate to capture the truth,
might take it all in

even if twenty plus years
have gone by, and everything,
including the skin

that covered my little body,
has either faded
or disappeared all together.

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Creative Writing the Dharma by nathan thompson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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