Working on this one just now. Getting my writing brain in gear through poems. :) <3 Love to you. Hope you like the piece. C.A.
Blindsided.
Quiet.
And the sheets are red.
Alone,
in the crimson morning,
I write, I'm not sure why,
but I think
I love him.
I'd be all right
with a child. I'm guessing
that every mosquito,
and every tree limb,
and every thunder crack back
has lived with such a feeling.
If I could, I'd ask the ant,
the cheetah,
or the Arizona night sky.
Surely,
here and now,
out there,
someone is blindsided
by a naked,
Iceland afternoon.
But there is no description
for the curious ways
we each trace a thousand fingers
down a thousand necks,
feeling the life there,
from smooth skin
to wrinkles.
Quiet.
Yes, the sheets
are red.
Alone, in the human
morning,
I write, I'm not sure why,
but I think
I love him.
One day, it seems
that he may carry me
all the way
up the safe
mountain.
C.A. MacConnell
