Cyndy Krey
Reaching Up to Touch the Moon
after the fire…
a million seeds
floating
under the ice —
turtles slumber
I want to be like the monk in Clark Strand’s Seeds from a Birch Tree, tapping fingers to thumb, counting syllables, composing poems while in a coma on my deathbed. I want to come face-to-face with myself as I step out of everyday life and learn to become the silence—after the baby’s cry, after the siren fades, even after I am no longer able to speak or write.
About the Author
Cyndy Krey makes her home in St. Paul, Minnesota. After 30 years of service she retired from the IT department at St. Catherine University, where she received honorable mention for the Denny Creative Writing prize several times over the years. She has published poems online and in the Wholeness anthology from Wising Up Press.
Love it
Oh, Cyndy, what a great job compressing down to the essence.
Love this too, especially on becoming the silence, somehow it seems as if all spaces surrounding us are filled.
karina
“come face-to-face with myself ” introspection that the reader can relate to
Cyndy, you always get right into the soul with your beautiful poetry. I am so fortunate to be your friend 😊
Paula Manthey
Beautiful! I hear you ❤️
How lovely Cyndy. All the richness in the space that follows “after”!
I have ordered SEEDS FROM A BIRCH TREE. I have been told that while my grandmother was actively dying she did not touch fingers to thumb to count syllables, but she did move her hands as if knitting and wondered “Do the girls have enough mittens?”.