when in February, I perch
on the cuttingly cold stones
of the old front steps,
I tell no one passing by
that I sit in awed admiration
that one plum chooses now to bloom
I tell no one stopping by –
how we both of us are furtive
and beautiful out of season
© Sarah Whiteley
certain books stay hidden –
those in which loss and love
exist without conclusion
and at times I may crack them –
draw new maps to old places,
new creatures of known constellations,
and let the moon out into the room
once more, to rest on shoulders
that can bear the additional gravity
a tolerable price to pay
for the pen to be able to say
“I survive! I survive! I survive!”
© Sarah Whiteley
you were not there
while I waited beneath
the sudden rain for a bus
that moved somehow
swifter for not
carrying you along with me
as if Time slows
within your sphere
pausing for the same
hint of hesitation
I seek out each morning
that your eyes slide
unheedingly on
even the driver sees
it is you I read
and not the book
lying agape upon my lap
but it was when
you were not there
that soft and sudden
I discovered how this
untouched want may be
a finer way of falling
© Sarah Whiteley
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