If We Could Hold Up The Sky

Hidden Flowers

It’s time to flower now.

You’ve been waiting, I know.

It’s daunting, revealing who you really are,

unaware as to how people will perceive you.

They’ll wonder which section of roots

is really you.

Which you is the one they’ll like most.

For those who love illusions,

your natural blooms will be devastating.

For those who crave to see behind the faux foliage,

your blooms

will be vibrant, soulful trumpets.

Here We Are, My Friend

So you want to know

what your closed eyes are missing?

Grasp my hand and I'll show you.

I’ll guide you down to the stream

and let you dip fingers in cool water,

feel how rocks break and curl the flow,

how small fish shy from your wake.

I’ll lead you up obscure hill paths:

hold your arms out wide

so wind can sweep you up, and drop

you easily among long grasses and fallen catkins

that kiss your skin.

I’ll take you to forests where rain has just eased

and the scent of crisp leaves on wet earth

rises to meet us with every stride,

where birds, deep in song, flit overhead

and squirrels scamper up trees;

chitter when you stray too close.

After all that,

I’ll draw your hands to my smiling face:

feel each muscle lift, each eye crease deepen,

each cheek warm

as you process, blink,

and lock your gaze with mine.

Observations Of A Face

Each muscle contorts to form an expression,

a one-sided twitch creates a half-smile

that exposes your teeth

enough to lightly rest the backs of your fingers against them;

pensive as always,

staring off into the distance.

Sometimes your eyes are mild: a lake on a still afternoon.

They can change in a beat,

build an intensity as great as a maelstrom

threatening to swallow ships headed its way.

Soft brows cannot hide waves of emotion, threatening to crash;

only practice and willpower make them bow down.

Those cheeks are always lifted in a grin,

but ache, wonderfully,

from a true smile.

Skin Deep

I have seen your self-inflicted shackles:

faded bracelets where each bead

has been imbued with the power to restrict

a part of your personality

in an act of self-protection.

Worn for so long they’ve merged with your skin,

only those with a trained eye

can see them for what they are.

I couldn’t. Not at first.

But over time you allowed me to notice.

Over time, you let slip.

And since that instant of understanding,

I’ve wanted nothing more than to ease them off you.

Not forcefully –

I don’t want to wound you like those before:

without thought, without purpose, other than a few laughs

that I know still cut through you,

even though they are nothing,

and you are everything.

I want you to emerge fully,

bask in the light;

never feel the need

to bury yourself again.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Kathryn Rossati

BOOK TITLE: If We Could Hold Up The Sky

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Poetry

PAGE COUNT: 73

IN THE BLOG: New Poetry Books