Sheila E. Murphy
How I Tend
I do not know the eloquence embedded in your skin. I feel the sweet delay of happiness has reached me then evaporates above my armor. How I tend the garden we cohabit, how I rake the darkness for its stars and chaperone the light. Immensely safe proceedings draw me forward, and I take the early path. I warm the stones, the dust, the skitterings of plant life rising to the place where atmosphere takes shape. How many types of flower host the dampness and the dryness and the patched indifference? Why are travels broken of their facts? More sleep, more streams, more chances to be different from our definition on arrival. The envelopes once opened offer answers not in play. As though the decibels of recitation darken post delay.
Referenda, choice points, aftermath amid the seething –oscopy
About the writer:
Sheila E. Murphy, Ph.D, is an American text and visual poet who has been actively publishing since 1978. She is the recipient of The Gertrude Stein Award for her book Letters to Unfinished J (Green Integer Press, 2003). She lives in Phoenix, Arizona.
Image: Image 5 by Sheila E. Murphy.
