Gorge

It’s a rocky cliff to overlook
when evening’s still so glum,
when the darkness whispers that this life
is too much to overcome.
That precipice may scare you
when you’re tired and poorly shod,
though throughout the day you cling
steadfastly to your god –
I’ve seen your withered, beating heart
ascend these fearful heights
and bravely keep a lookout through
the storms of these long nights.
Stay true to what the daylight speaks
into your quiet soul,
for though the night feels long and dark,
time still takes its toll –
be patient with eyes skyward,
for this night will soon have passed,
and you’ll find yourself across this gorge
and continue on at last.

©K Paige Medina 7 December 2017

via Daily Prompt: Gorge

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Endangered Afternoons

These endangered afternoons hang
like eggshells, suspended from a sky bleached by
its own wind, the way a desert seems like its own fault.
These afternoons are a different kind of barren,
pierced by spindly fingers of trees,
half-cracked by wasted plans, fading indistinctly
into the extinction of a deep and perilous evening.
Were these the longed-for afternoons I sought
when, drunk on the bee-sting venom of a sweltering afternoon,
alone in the jungle of my discontent,
I swore to another bleached-through sky
I would only ever love the winter?

Had I known then what I know now, would I have
been so eager to cast off the beaded arms
of friendlier warmth – not tensed so soon
or so fully, and learned to love the scent of a morning,
and learned the language of insects as they
spun their symphonies above my head?
Or would it have mattered to a girl
too young to be built on, fragile in extremity,
hardened by fear, unwillingly tanned –
was it that she was always unable to appreciate
the curve of a mountain hung with the scorched fruit
of a season? Am I still so illiterate – willfully so –
that the language of afternoons yet leaves me
so mutely terrified of time?

The afternoon is dying, but
I bear the curse of still being young,
earning still the bone antiquities that plague a soul
slowly brittling,
slowly shaved to sharpness –
must this be the way I grow old?

©K Paige Medina 1 December 2017

Braver Love

Love,
we have cooled, haven’t we?
Slowed to the rhythm of days
we never saw coming,
preoccupied now with the minutes
that once seemed tenuous.
Is it granted, this life,
made up of the coffee spoons we
recycle without telling each other?

Or are we still
allowed to burn with the flames we once knew,
standing billowing upon the mountaintops
of hills we fought to crest,
when we were brave and excited?

Let us not go gentle
into the twilight of our love’s forgetting,
but make of life
a more impassioned cry

and remember once more
that ecstasy does not keep,
but must be found and caught
like the fireflies we saw in humid nights.

It is work, this
braver love, this
scaling of walls, this
looking at another person and seeing them
as another universe filled with light and sound and fury
and yes,
the smallness, too,
the inconsistency
of fireflies.

I will not sit
to watch love wilt in jars;
let us climb again
those towers that yearn for, but do not reach,
the stars.

©K Paige Medina 27 March 2017