A quiet complementarity arrived
at my front door this morning; side
by side they stood, a nation state
of grays and blues like doves and
jays, they were a pair, though I
lost count of them way after two,
they multiplied in tones and rings,
my worded mind falls short to
comprehend, much less explain.
Your civil war is done, they said,
the shopworn carpetbaggers fled,
we saw them leave with sorry
tales between their legs and knew
their fall you would no longer try
to stop. May we come in?
I may have answered yes or not,
they filled the space so fast that is
the mess I call my home and set
up shop of sorts, a clearing house
of odd and even implements I’ve
never seen, except in dreams.
And then it dawned on me I’ve seen
them come around before in shades
of hope and indigo, they hung the
drapes that separate the needless
and the false from where I keep my
word, and words I use to write.
The table’s set, the pen and paper
stacked, no need to tear myself apart
from you, the dove and jay, at right
and left, will manage fêtes of merriment
and brew a purple monkshood wine to
lift the spirits of the poisoned thoughts
who felt themselves unworthy—now
they know that only friends of deep
and true affection gather here.
POISON ALERT: Monkshood, all parts of it, are deadly. This is only a poem. Do not eat or drink anything from the plant, and if you must touch monkshood, wash your hands thoroughly afterwards.
© Elaine Stirling, 2012