Lindsay Rockwell

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Sound of Light

Sound of light is not feet love earth come rain
or lean into horse, her heft to hold.
It is feather’s dream of wind—
monk’s robe rushing toward still mind.

Sound of mind is not whittling winds
or how horse heaves a burdened plow.
It is earth’s breath beneath unleashed rain—
how feet falter beneath wild of sky.

Sound of sky is not horse’s heft let go
or fields of fire gone cruel.
It is monk’s trace behind candle’s flame—
unleashed rain blessing plow and dirt.

Sound of dirt is not wind’s might
or mind’s burden lain at gate.
It is horse come home to pull love’s plow—
sound of light lifting sky.

Ghost Fire

There are ashes everywhere.
Driftwood. Grasslands. Bone.

Shadows of moon and metal. Tides.
How questions wobble. Artists flinch.

And walls pardon the noise of breath.
Hurrying. Delicate. How spectacular

blood. Morning. Mouthfuls
of blossom gone. Air hauls

the heavy scent of sorrow. Slouching.
Eye of fire’s a gone tomorrow.

Letters. Envelopes. A clock face. Wicked, ticking
in the corner. A whisper redefining decibel.

A child’s cry through thin walls. A mother’s comfort.
Mumblings. Plans to travel. Wheels. Wheels.

Not Today

You walk backward. Out of the sea. Empty
your pockets of stones. Pockets that had taken.
Years to fill. You empty each one.
As though you might lay the stones
on your dresser and count the change.
Your face is a nest of sad. A home
for failed fledglings, tarnished silver
and scars. Still, you are always the one. Whose arms
cherish. The soft of lambs. Who swims in sounds.
Like the nickering of horses. Waiting
to haul the dray. You are always. The one listening.
As though your pulse depends on the patter of rain
upon the roof. On the ugly voice. Of the man
outside the bar. Thrusting himself.
On the pretty girl hiding. Behind
big glasses. But most of all. You listen.
To the sea. Its mesmerizing hush
and thwack against the rocks. And I know.
And you know. One day you’ll walk home to the sea.
Just not today. Not today.

Lindsay Rockwell is poet-in-residence for the Episcopal Church of Connecticut and hosts their Poetry and Social Justice Dialogue series. She’s published, or forthcoming in CALYX, EcoTheo Review, Radar, River Heron Review, among others. Her first collection, GHOST FIRES, was published by Main Street Rag, April 2023. She’s received fellowships from Vermont Studio Center and Edith Wharton/The Mount residency.  Lindsay holds a Master of Dance from New York University’s Tisch School of Arts and is an oncologist.

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