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The Beggar Poet's Hexagram 38: Opposition

stevef

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I’ll put sugar in my tea and you’ll drink it pure


one hand will grab the base
and another the handle.


You’ll appear nonchalant and I’ll be intent on an air
of seriousness.


Look through the window


afternoon light reflects from the pavement
and blades
of grass still wet from the shower.


Stand by the lonely
who press their foreheads against the pane
and allow the cold to enter


each drop resonates with a tear.


A glow from the fire will brighten your cheekbones
while my face will remain in shadow.


Blue and white through net curtains


my son picking apples


a fork in a branch


to the left- grey bark,
to the right- a tiny bud.


A long forgotten warrior forsaken by his tribe


the surface
of a dark pond and a backdrop
of silence


glaze on a surfacing toad


moonlight.


You address the cosmos with delight, abounding in description
of cirrus clouds, internecine rivalry and imbalance
where a foe will slaughter his rival for the affection
of a multitude while I will study the movement of an earthworm,
a broken fingernail and, with no weight given to the importance
of an effect, align a word of ancient derivation
with an expression used by a hermit no none listens to


yet, we still meet
to talk about what you did yesterday
and what I will do tomorrow
although we will avoid expressing commitment
to the next meeting
and the thought we don’t particularly care
for the language the other uses
to persist in their calling.
 

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