things I cannot tell you

I cannot tell you, for example,
that I am resting against the ache
of not seeing you rise in the morning
to sip your coffee at the window

or that the prospect of you
is the hidden sun in my throat
that glows, that pulls roots, and yes,
I would joyfully plant myself beside you

and also, I cannot tell you
that you are my favorite kind of ‘yes,’
my affirmation that the mountain
will not fall from beneath me

and that the whole of my skin
sleeps until you are near enough
to wake it – that all of me resides
inside almost, maybe, not quite

© Sarah Whiteley

losing my keys

keys lie nestled
in my right pocket
where they can remind
fingers that there
are roots to be had

connections that
cannot so easily
be pulled, no matter
the direction taken
by forgetting feet

which ride out strange
asphalts, and long
grasses, stretches
of sky so wide we
all lie swallowed by it

shadows in the valley
call out to the mountain,
where I’ll one day
just let these keys
slip out unnoticed

ah well! someone
will undoubtedly
find them and send
them on their way
back home again

© Sarah Whiteley

certainty of spring

a slow chain of greening begins beneath –
unseen, sneaking through damp earths

a stealthy pushing aside of rocks
and winter for worm-paths and pale roots
sending tentative inquiries further afield

spring seeks surfaces in the same way
the yellow-beaked robins break the dirt –
in the same manner leaf-buds seek an April sun –

an abiding search for choicer feasts
and a respite from waiting, bare-branched,
until we can say with certainty spring has begun

© Sarah Whiteley

I hope you’ll forgive my absence lately – I’m smack dab in the middle of the spring tax deadlines and it doesn’t leave much space for reading or writing or cloud gathering. Of course the head cold isn’t helping any of that either.

But be well, and I’ll catch up when I can!