dark floors

silk is brushing the floors, from the high ceiling

it is like the paper-thin wings of a fluttering moth

but this gentle whisper of fabric, hushing the floor

only flies as the winter opens and pours in splashes of white

the clear light is half filtered by these curtains,

like a cold stroke of a small cataract in all its detached splendor,

but the rest of the sun reaches the floor like the call of dawn

caressing the morning with a quiet passion; a constant lover

let us open the window that touches the floor,

and let the light over-pour, and shake our house

but, flinging wide our upstair gates, we discover the calm

was not merely a diminished feeling from the out to the in

even if you stepped outside, only a slight kiss would whoosh

causing your tip-toe waves to gently breeze over your face

and you can imagine, inside as you now are, standing barefoot

on the dark floor of the patio-out, dreaming of the land you see, no different

sitting on a tall stool, hundreds above your wood panels,

one foot on the seat as if wanting to stay close to the mainland that is your body

and one foot hanging as if desiring to fly like the feathers that come off

winter birds, but you sit and feel infinite and light, because you are.

dressed in dark boxers from your long ago friend, and a gigantic tee

the outer you is insignificant compared to the outer this,

the white sloping vertical plains of snow and ice,

the sun dappled trees of green and musky scent

you hold on to a steaming cup of whatever is it you like

something with silent zeal that causes lust for citrus,

you are alone, and not waiting for anyone, yet knowing

someone is going to come and be with you, soon or late

while you look on, you are aware that with every inhale

you are living what your eyes and nose are taking in

and you know that your hands are soft but have creases of toil

slender legs, one grounded, one defying

you are not cold, though you are sure this winter is

you jump off your high stool, suspend in the still

and land on the dark floors, and walk to the sun

the cold white sun, all the while never stopping to dream about neverland

because though it wasn't a never was,

growing old is okay, here in this place

slender legs may frail, coarse hands may shake

but the whispers of wings, kisses of cold, and reminders of more

are enough to feel infinite.