A weekend trip we’d planned for weeks,

a rare moment

we both had time for.

And you had built it up,

a tower of blocks,

each an expectation bound to fall,

and I was not exactly

the fullest bag of fun that weekend.

You see, I’d noticed

those changes in myself,

that would later create so much trouble,

the strands of hair

that fell so freely now,

the new impatience,

restlessness at the end of another year.

My porcupine heart,

your bubble of expectation,

weren’t they going to collide?

And it was something so small

that lit it.

How your sweet face burst,

your body clenched to a fist,

your mind made up to go home,

and a whole day swallowed

in your raging hurt.

You stayed but,

was it the day

something unravelled from us?

The veins of our lives

wound so tightly about us

were perhaps bound to fray.

But this was always your way,

to severe the strands,

only to retie them

just the way you wanted

to fit the wild seasons of your heart.


Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014.

One thought on “Kyoto

  1. You have so much talent. You’re one of my favorite poets. Like the strands in the poem, I’m sensing so many of the poets that influenced you weaving in and out of your own canvas that is your own personal voice getting stronger everyday.

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