by Lorenzo Piccoli
My friend Thomas wrote this poem. I am sharing it with you.
Spirit is the warmth in our breath
when we, like birds tangled,
fly, tumble in thick air
to grounds of realization
we of that dance, will never
be the same again
(we stare at the moon)
take me to a white forest
where ice hugs the poplar and
everything is cold but my breath
which leads me somewhere.
(but not the sun)
Take me like some pilgrim
from the north, stumbling, sloshing
through this blankness, this
I am stripped of
my colour now. I am walking
amongst these frozen poplars as an insider.
I am beginning to think of us
and how, me being naked and iced
has frozen this time, and frozen this thought
and made clear this fact- that I am here alone.
So lead me breath. Lead me to somewhere I’ve never been.