Photo by Wade Fox
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Skinned Knees
Kathryn Sadakierski The range of mountains, Its rumpled ridges Like paper curled under your fingers, Crimped edges of an accordion, Is rising with the light, Clouds weaving by overhead, Like horses cantering through trails of a forest, Manes flying with the wind, Past trees still lost in sleep. It’s so hard, sometimes, To wake yourself from a dream, To submerge yourself In the ice-cold water of reality. The rim of dawn is the color of a tin pail, Paling to reds and pinks, Like water when it catches flares From the sun, Messages, smoke signals, In the reflection. Like the scabbed knees of children Sitting in a row along the curb, Resting their bikes and scooters On the neighborhood sidewalks As though they’re leashed dogs, left to wait, The mountains are a series of shaky outlines Under an uneven scribble of sky, Wobbly like words Written on a letter while on the bus. A series of doorknobs, the mountain range Tries to alert you to the presence Of the opening you seek, An answer to find When you look on the other side. Wherever you are, it seems We’re forever thinking of where to go Next, and even where we’ve been. On the drive by the elementary school I once attended, many eternities ago, I notice shaggy piles of leaves Swept to corners far away from the towering trees, Children queueing up to go back inside From the playground To empty classrooms Still wondering at the ghosts Of their unanswered questions, Pencils that couldn’t erase The past, all that’s passed Like papers across desks, Leaves windblown to another place, But time halts for no one. So I try to catch up, Still looking at the clouds, Beyond the trees above. I keep falling in memories, Skinning my knees on what couldn’t be. I wait on edges, Trying to see a hint Of where I’m supposed to venture Over the horizon. Anyway, it doesn’t matter How broad or colorful my vision If this borderline is clouded, Though every time I fall, I just can’t let go of this reflex To keep standing again. |