January 2018
Martin Willitts Jr
mwillitts01@yahoo.com
As I was trying to think of what to say about myself, a few dangling snowflakes went by the window as quiet as the dark. How fragile the flakes are at this moment. They are so few, so random. It is difficult to imagine them gathering or surviving. Then I think of our own short lives. I was at a store and a mother was screaming that her baby was not breathing. I know CPR and Rescue Breathing. It is dangerous to give CPR to a baby, because it can crack an adult’s ribs, and a baby’s ribs are just forming. Luckily, I know how to do it and I had the baby breathing, crying like any disturbed baby. The right place and time? Coincidence? That baby was as delicate as the flakes, loosely wandering in the air. What could I possibly say about myself that was more important than a baby or a snowflake? Nothing.
 
Driving On Snow-Disappearing Roads
 

I need sunglasses while driving through snow season.
Snow reflects light and can dazzle-blind me.
Snow is, after all, water crystals made solid by cold.
 
Roads can be smeared by snow --
endless, shifting, windblown snow filling
in the blanks, removing all traces of land and road.
 
Sight is not all that vanishes, sound can too:
the crunch, the air from our noses, the ice melt --
all are lost, or echo aimlessly in a blizzard.
 
Just when I believe the world has been taken away,
a single yellow flower is in a space created by sunlight
tells me the world is returning, silent and warm.
 




Candle Light
 

wanes,
flinches in air
as flames tilts, making new stories,
burning slowly,
form changing as wax melts,
slowing their pulse,
then at the end, wax globs

like a period at the end of a sentence.





 A Room Everyone Enters


There is a place, dark as a room
without light; a restless place
where not one object is still,
moving without wind.
 
A place wanting
to touch us, deeply,
coloring our cheeks,
making us determined to stay.
 
A place that wants us to be content.
But it is a lie to gain our confidence,
ready to betray us,
playing soft, romantic music.
 
The language it speaks is seductive
and endless, making us feel desired.
Our reactions are observed, closely,
and measured to assure certain results.
 
I know this room. Once someone enters,
they do not return; but I see everyone
drawn to this place, hypnotized,
although burned by coming too close.
 
 
  
The Door


For no known reason there was a door in the field.
The door was free-standing and locked. I know;
I tested it.
 
I do not know which was stranger: a secure door
without walls, or me trying the doorknob.
 
I walked all around the door,
trying to determine why it was locked
against the world. Perhaps, the door knew
the world was a dangerous place.
 
I suspect if I found a key, it might be the wrong key.
Or if I unlocked the door, I might find a void.
 
Some mysteries are determined to remain unknown. 
© 2018 Martin Willitts Jr
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