I Frame the World
I shape the world with my hands.
I draw the borders of your portrait
With charcoal and chalk
Then wait for your face to materialize like sunrise.
I frame the edges of the earth with my fingertips.
My eyes are receptive, passive,
Limited to limned squares- which isn't much-
Cast upon the blank canvas of mind.
My hands are always probing the frontiers,
Reaching, sightless, feeling for something to clutch.
I gather all I can carry,
A pile of collected objects to be sorted and tagged.
My vision extends as far as the space between my hands.
I learned to ignore the lost loveliness outside these borders.
I was always building frames
For the slivers of world I wanted to save.
I thought the world had to be acquired.
Look at my pile of splintered frames,
Broken slats of wood where every image slowly fades.
Now I find time to sit in stillness on the porch
And forge the world with my hands alone.
Each lost moment gets a concentrated gaze.