Cover me in thistle clouds,
Lay me down and lay me down.
Wish the winter all around,
Hide our love in thistle clouds
Feel the lightning strike us still
What you will is what you will
Can you feel the coming chill
After lightning lays us still
Wait, the rain comes fast and cold
Love is old - yes, love is old
Hands that touch are far too bold
Wash away our love with cold
Hidden here in thistle down
Love me now, please love me now
Lest the summer find us out
Hidden here in thistle down.
~21-July-03, "thistle down"~
I'm sorry this isn't any better; it feels forced and contrived to me, sort of a linguistic enema to rid me of a part of the lines that have been stuck in my mind for days now, the opening lines of the poem. I worry sometimes that I'm losing my touch completely, but I think it's more that I lack the time to sit and stare into space, and wonder any more.
It's raining now, and I can hear the soft touch of raindrops on the glass of the patio doors as the wind blows them to and fro. And as quickly as they came, as quickly as I went to look out and see to the wellbeing of my plants on the patio, they're gone, leaving behind a warm and humid night, overcast, with lightning dancing in the air.
I had tales to tell, O Best Beloved, but they fade in the wake of the storm, nestled into the recesses of my memory, where one day blurs into another. I haven't heard back from the IAFP yet; that worries me. I'm supposed to go - if I'm going - on Thursday this week. If I don't hear from him by noon-ish, I guess I'll call his office and see. I've e-mailed twice. I hate not knowing what's going on, and I really want to go to this conference.
Dangit, Carolyn, why couldn't you be more comprehensibly forthcoming about this whole bloody thing?