fading
somewhere past paper thin
wisps of mourning
unreclaimed images
—
Many of my poems recently have been starting our long; I let them sit and then find myself stripping away words and lines that seem to clutter the feelings that first prompted me to write. Some moments I think I could write more without disturbing the essence if I were a better poet. Other moments, it seems just right.
Expectations dashed,
morning arises just the same.
We skirt the space from last night
and busy ourselves
in living —
I understand
the rain should taper off today.
—
There are difficult moments in much of what I write, but I have been reluctant to post something that doesn’t somehow tie up neatly. Not all moments do.
The arc on the old swing is short
and the set rocks uneasily
from so many seasons
in the snow and rain.
He has known it
for all of his five years,
but now runs to it less often,
lingers not as long.
Just the other day
he asked me for a push,
one he doesn’t need anymore —
a big one, he said,
and laughed
as he rose and fell
straining back,
reaching upward.
The blue sky was clear
and closer than it used to be.
—
Completing the set with companion pieces Ten and Almost Eight.
Come close to me, son,
together in the morning air
and tell me
with just your smile
your eyes and your hands
that you love me.
Laugh with me,
rest your cheek close to mine,
and I will tell you too.
The arrangement can only be made
from what is there in the garden
among the spring’s fresh birth.
Insistent rain enfolds
petals and blossoms—
without hindering—
accompanies hushed birds
and muffled traffic sounds,
distinct only in retrospect.
Last summer’s basket
in which I would have laid each piece
hasn’t turned up.
It’s been laid aside somewhere,
so I hold the fresh-clipped stems in my mouth.
Some taste bitter,
others earthen and whole.
Passing quickly in the morning
as you make lunches
and I rush to the car
isn’t what I imagined
that day we stood
in the old barn by the sea,
my hand gently touching yours,
and feeling every movement of the sweat
trickling down the small of my back.
Standing outside in the garden,
I didn’t notice the photographer
as we talked idly
between silences
about the softness of the rain —
though the pictures in the crimson binder
tucked up on the highest shelf
tell me he was there.
Let’s meet again in that garden,
where we can stand still,
my hand resting
on the laces that entwine
the back of your dress.
delicate blossoms
gracing slender branches
breach new sky
presenting tenderness
into unknown morning
stars fade
as first shadows
play on apple tree branches
above the altar
the ancient window’s brass fittings
have acquiesced to open
bursting forth —
not two
nothing to be sure of
but the time for tea
I know the first hints of leaves
are the lightest green.
Yet they appear black
against the wisps of clouds
and a sky growing pale
just before darkening.
He comments on them
looking up from his bed,
and asks to leave the curtains open.
It sure is nice light, I reply
and stroke his hair.
His stillness is perfect
even as he turns his head
for me to brush his other cheek.
A father and son will argue sometimes —
but the morning and its disappointment
are forgotten
in the last light
of this day.
I stopped at the top of the stairs
to wait for him
as he shuffled out of his bedroom,
sleepy-eyed and not yet steady.
He took the old walnut railing
with his left hand
as we walked next to each other
towards breakfast and the day.
His right hand reached into mine,
gentle and soft,
warm from his blanketed slumber.
He’s almost eight years old, I thought,
in fear of the day
when he won’t slip so easily
into sharing his space
or his hand
with me.
I tried to tread carefully as we went
so as not to disturb our clasp,
wishing the stairs might go on forever,
a father and his boy.
bussokuseki 