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Dave Bonta
The cold is a mother
as generous as the space
between the stars. I gave her
my discontent & my distance:
all those older & more restless selves
who are still out there, moving away
at the speed of light.
I grinned for Polaroid & single-lens
reflex alike, but inside
I was wincing. Cold.
I learned how to knit
when I was seven: scarves
& sweaters, socks & gloves, maps
& pastures & that long deep lake
I later loved. By then I’d crossed
oceans, no mere mermaid;
There is a field where a sycamore grows
Whether it be day or night, one could say it glows.
It is a peaceful place for thought;
A place where all is quiet, my own little spot.
I love this place, enough to have said
That I wanted to rest here when I'm dead.
While I'm here, I feel sort of free;
A type of magic that affects only me.
Because there, I could truly be alone.
Sitting at the tree; my own wooden throne.
And here was my kingdom; seen from a palace so grand
That I could look all across the land
Now I grow old, as most rulers do;
So I let loose my crown and gazed once more at the view
And whispered the story of the place now nobody knows;
Here in the field where the sycamore grows.