A cool, late winter morning,
–the signs of spring in red budded tree tops,
and the gently moving yellow of the willows.
A narcissist bud is begging the sun to penetrate
its delicate membrane and impregnate it
with the energy of birth,
the bitter/sweet connection, the periodic table, the elements with which it breaths.
Narcissism ought not to be shy,
it lives with the same birth right as the lilac, blooming in the door-yard, by the Brooklyn Ferry, by Emerson’s Rhodora,
And the transcendentals,
Who failed to thrive one hundred years ago or more.
This gives me not my warm kindness.
I lie in state, conscious, but vulnerable with no object.
The damp wood smells slightly of a spring bog,
while the snow melts around the granite stone,
the only rock of ages that have been clef-ed for me.
The post card reads, wish you were here…
To which I reply, “yes! wish I was here with me as well.”
And, another morning kisses my eye lids
with colorless gray ideas,
with a forgotten hopefulness that you will one day return with your spoils of war.
Blessed art thou, Penelope, for you have inherited the yarn of time.
Go forth, you who are young in heart; the inheritance is short lived,
and we must, all, take the test of time, despite,
that we shall never pass it.
Mindfulness in psychoanalysis