Starting Over

The story starts:  in the beginning {Stop}  if I could go there now
in my new garden boots the color of paradise,
a heart in the shape of a shovel with the yellow eyes
of a wolf just as it tires and a pillow that smells like
the perfume of clouds, I could begin again.  {Start}  

There are so many stories about {Life} as for the others
about crossing over, night after night I hear their slow, dark
voices speak of black seeds, deep red flowers and the missing
light.  Something about the big, quiet house and those waiting
to be born inside.  What I meant was "the wind carries those

who love it to the other side."

A room that is not a room.  A bird that can't fly but
burns the wetness of its wings out.  A tear  that never
forgets to slide to the corners of the mouth.

My mother reads to me a book with pages as heavy as shadow,
dense as sleep and it sounds like singing, it sounds like a wild
and strange animal whose throat is filled with a thousand crows
in startled flight. At the end of the story {Stop}  I close
my heart and {start} over again . 

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