overtures

To tell this story
goes far back
so far back-
that the truth is dim and lost
buried over with the frosts,
of the pasts surrendered by breath, and fire and damp earth.

To open this book
despite the lack,
the bitter lack-
of lineage and lovers and lights
of voice, or words, and euphemistic rights
that line and number the pages.

You enter me;
the constant visitor
who lies in wait,
who I never see
but feel
moving in me
now behind my eyes
or over my shoulders like an embrace or a cold wind.

You dance across the line of finding
and forgetting;
red shoes
torn up dirt in the driveway
lost rain against the window.

Words line up
or drop like leaves
making life
with every movement and every mood
like the changing light
we live by.