What I Wanted to Say

There are turns of phrases
That run through my mind
And stick out my ears like the cattails that grow by the sound.
I need to get them out,
To set them on the table,
To pull their roots from my heart.

But I can't. They concern things
That I aught not be concerned with,
And it isn't fair if I consider them.

Tender things, raw things.
A fragrance, a moment, an instance, a life.
They pull at my heart, but
They must remain inside.

I creep down the staircase,
The house is bigger, darker in the small hours.

I steal away further into the inky depths
To write this, my only tension breaker,
By the furtive light of an old wood-burner.