I was told truth is the oak
that holds
its leaves each winter. A promise
delayed.
As it turns out, I forget
the rules. I never can
know them. This one is another
mask for doubt.
This one is the cover
for an empty bed.
This one is the sheet drawn back—
the old clothes
gathered in the corners
of every room I’ve ever known.
Evening settles like ash
on the snow. Another bird
on the feeder. Does it realize
the emptiness
it fills? This one is the sense
traced on a sheet
of frost. The cold that takes
residence between glass
and bone. This one is the moment
that passes
as soon as you arrive.
The bird lifts
from the feeder. Flies off
because it does
what birds do. If I knew
the rules I would make
my home like a bird—
gather the things that are
most important: This Stick. This Thread.
Safe in the knowledge
this one is the truth that holds
everything together.
Mark Imielski is an attorney who lives in Geneva, Illinois with his wife Christine and children Harris and Gabby. He is fascinated by the “why” which informs all of his work. He aspires to write more than one poem per decade.