Cold, bleak, dreary.
Your once wooded valleys are bare.
Your earth is naked barring clumps of brown moss.
Here and there, stones are piled one on another-
A remnant, a memorial of some event or person no longer extant.
Your geysers reek sulfur, the falls are no Niagara, but –
Blue lagoon.
Mud mask, faint smell, natural warmth tickles the nose and invites
Curiosity. Wonder. Simplicity in childlike awe:
Blue and clouds – your water is sky mixed together.
Mineral deposits smooth the bottom of your white-encrusted floor.
Mascara circles and the perfect spot –
Secluded.
Cold on the bottom, and in the divots of the rocks.
Warmth in the middle, and from above.
The sun warms my face as I feel.
I feel, after all of my searching, to have found myself -
Grounded.
Heterogenous. Redefined after layer upon layer of revision. Complete.
A calculated van Eyck masterpiece, finished by a one hair brush.
Detailed, textured, vibrantly depicted in earth's palette.
Healed and no longer apologetic when married to you –
Bloo Lonió.
3 comments:
I like this poem very much. The descriptions, depicting not only a physical world but also a state of the mind and of the soul.
A monologue directed to a specific audience, the way it should be.
Awesome.
I have always wanted to go to Iceland, and your poem has awakened that wish again. The details are fine. The ending reminds me of our Timp talk about allowing awkwardness. What is the name of that photographer who said to allow for our awkwardness?
Diane Arbus.
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