The Desk

In the left hand drawer
of the old desk, 
a huddled pack
of long-missing
stars.

In a box
at the back of the drawer,
a mussel shell clattering.

Inside the shell, a book.

In the book, lightning.

The book’s
pages have fused.
The lightning
has burned the box.
The shell is cracked, fragile
but sound.  The stars
cluster and shudder.

I don’t question
the homing instinct
of such things,
why they’ve found my drawer
to be such a hospitable place
to survive. 

This book
may explain it.

I’ll carefully work its pages apart
to see what can be read of its tales of exile
and closely watched wars, its stories
of unspoken vows, and the reason
the stars fled here.

It is a translation
from smoke, fracture, and fire.

This is just the work
the desk was made for.

Tags: poems, poetry, meditations