I wish you well

I'm looking at you, thinking about how I can't stop this
                                                                  spate of sound and how it's making me
wonder.
Wonder if, finally,
             I've gone stark, raving mad.  But I'm losing a little more light every day so I'm wringing 'em out and letting 'em dry.
             They're
flapping and fighting the wind but the fresh air is doing them good.
        I'm not about
                                                  to rescue them - or you.  This time.  I'm
watching from the window and I'm writing you a wish for this forthcoming year.  I'm feeling the contour of the former and the finished and the figuration of the edge
 of
  forever, the scarp we stood on, not
                                so long ago.
                                            And, then, your lack of any of any
                                                                          kind and your silence and your superfluity and all
                                                                                                                                  the wrong moments and near misses. I'm recalling how my fingers traced your wound and how I knew I'd  leave another and suffer one, as well.  I'm envisioning the abundance
arched above
your absence.  I am questioning your innocence as well as mine.  And I'm remembering testing
       the integrity of your infrastructure, one foot weighing each rickety step leading up the spiral
                                                 curve of impenitent insistence
                                                                                    and the house of intrigue, completely
                                                                                                                         crashing down but safe and home, I'm noting, too, your silhouette still
                   hanging on my wall. So, I'm editing, now, emotion and offering you, instead of hope,
 the truth and I'm telling you,
                                                                             I wish you well.


Write at the Merge

Moirai

The stars deliver the news of night's
          arrival.  Elpis
                           sinks
and ice, intent to trap,
weeping, swiftly throws herself upon the creek.  A murderous plot, killing ripples.
    It hurts.  I tried
            to touch
you but you veered - a tangent
maneuver, or so I thought.
                           The part may have been mine.  In this face,
                                                                I'm thinking of the curve of
you against me again.  The way
you might write an account
             this way of warmth.  I don't want to
                                  retrace the line, return to point.  Just in this aftercourse,
make love in collision and thwart
                                     the truth of these moments. Trust less an issue, anymore
                                                          Surround me with sadness-it's more real.  Eye me into flesh.  Strewn
                                                                                                sheets consume
                                                                                                                  me,throw off grief.  It's human.  Scour later.
           A flame to heat, get drunk from, brood beneath.
                  My tears are useless here.  The pop of a secret knowing soul sky
                         emits the rumor of rain and before you see it,
                              torrents melt the cover and I'll float.


The Sunday Whirl

Cloudburst

The surprise of your laughter- head thrown back, eyes grooved.  Really laughing.
Drench me in it.
             It's new to me.  Or if
             I knew it once, the marvel resurrected like those women clothed in rose.
 Another gift.  I find them everywhere, wrapped with
             thought.
A scavenger hunt for joy.

Poetry Jam

Formerly

Rapid, pounding out the
               news, betraying, yet keeping
                                                  pace with yours.  Beyond bruised, it's shockingly
                                                                                  still able.  If I
could,
I'd hurl it across the room-
at you.  It's yours, anyway and
          I'm through with it.
          I've outgrown it and it makes it
hard to walk - or talk.  Or breathe.  Not so rare.  But the
insistent rustle of whispers in the
curtains who saw it all still haunt this house, like the bells tolling with aurora, announcing the arrival
            of times past.  And the spasm which is each current moment
bursts to break it still,
                            little pieces of star. And it seemed once that I
would cease to live
but that
proved false.  The
       enigma of falling,
recurrent as
            the clench of seasons and so take flight,
            these feathered believers as clouds first blush then give way to an
                       again spacious sky.

The Sunday Whirl
                                                                                       

Until

She
sighs.
 He stares, submerged, into the mirror, slicks back his hair
                      and the  moment of what could have been, rushes past, an
itch lapsed.
 Unfolded in the time it takes for him to primp, her desire laid out aches the bed-an ocean of
                                                    all marriage
                                                        mystery. Her eyes now
                                                                reflect the
glassy void of his, the milky promises
   seeped to spilling are the whites
and the once blue of
                     infant hope, now tragic as the state of constant solitude  in company.  Heaving her
body upward, she returns
                             to laundry to lighten the load of all unwashed
                                                                                        sin,
within.
"Listen," he says,
 his voice a blast of what's broken
and she jumps
 to have to.
 She
    turns
and gazes at his soul,
wants to take
                     a paper towel and Windex and scrub until visibility
                                                                       becomes a possibility.  "Top of the list, Sweet- laundry.
Socks, please," he says, halfway out
                                                   the door now
 and she sighs.


The Sunday Whirl

A sometimes silence

So, if
     I gather them in the hammock of my honesty, and we swing softly
           to
           the hymns of tales told in truth,
would that be alright?
If the messes gather during
                              day while a sometimes silence
                                       interrupts the
                                         more often heard tattletaling, marking its
                                                                            insignia with a lead stroke of drawing and I take
                                                                                            the time,
while it visits, to pen as well, imaginings of evenings of explanations and understandings, the brood, seated in a circle, while I bring You in?  Forlorn without them, I miss them while they're here because the sand drips
faster than ever,
 forks are forming,
frost is coming
and I don't want to
find it gone.
       The clash of age hangs in the balance, hewn on the
          heart of the home.
Manic Mondays
play relentlessly and I remember in a Sunday the peace we knew before. If you fuse this prayer with grace and new mercies, we can make it. Drive desire in, and give me calloused knees to kneel on, so that I won't
                  waste this time.
                    Affair alarms
                    a signal, the chores wax but I wait and still,
 find comfort in the story of a woman of desire,
wonder if she had children, if You knew their names and I know you did.

The Sunday Whirl

the gift so beautiful that eyes can see

I take notes on my thoughts, in the car,
 outside the grocery store,
jot
                                               them down on a previously important envelope.
 Or I take notes on half-
 on some
        of my thoughts, arranging them like a composition of music,
 I write about an author I was reading a year ago, this new, shorter
                                                   story woven with
                                                   similar theme.  I hone my words in, focus on,
                                                                               not necessarily,
                                                                                  the battle
                                                                                       between good and evil but the
perplexity at the
notion of it.
     I think of the author's words, then and now,
                                  shaping thoughts into questions posed for future generations,
 but more than that, I think of the craft produced and bestowed,
                                                                                            designed
to prompt another story.
 I cast off guilt of self-indulgence.
                                    I am happy.
I am delightfully entrapped by another book.  The paradox of savor and rush.  Each page holds a sweet
                                                surprise of sentence
                                                so I earmark
 because the book is mine.  
I taste the
formation of style and
       artistry, circle the words on the mind
                    of my tongue, dizzied by
simple brilliance.  How do writers do this?  Mix things up,
shake them around, piece them back together
         to stunning bloom and perfection, fold them into paper airplanes, fly them
             so they land, new and pleading, true and provoking similar thought,
                                                           rolling at night,
                                                                      tumbling to
                                                                            be remembered?
And in the fog of the midst of a good book, I walk, groggy, content, prolonging moments.
A state known to
    travelers of this sort,
jet-lagged from world lapse.  What if we stayed, appropriating time,
nibbled all
         day, words for nourishment, long and fruitful, abandoned
                       short spurts
and pictures of
                    feasts and dined
on the delicacy of story?  Quit summarizing and glorifying 'to the
point'.  What if there was never the need to place a loathsome
           word like television in a poem, if the contemplation of throwing the object out
                 discarded the word as well from our vocabulary and our homes.  We'd learn enough, I think. I'm
 re-collecting wonderment in people, cooking from books, recipes for ripeness.
                                                                                 Shamelessly plotting the
                                                                                                     outline of
returning to a changed outlook.  I'm thinking of homespun yarns and origami and tables of skilled, wakened artists,
gathering colors for their words, their wealth of wisdom growing.
Because what gift better from a mother than
                         this love transmitted from The Word, to the
                                                                       words that carry and heal, remind, bring peace and belonging and purpose, that ache from honesty, raw and exposed, trickle
                                 to
                     teach the
power of life and
                        death, the responsibility so huge but the
                                                                    gift so beautiful that eyes can see new loveliness in shrunk, wet flower petals left on a bathroom sink,
                  so precious you almost can't bear to write it down.

We flew to the moon

We flew to
             the moon via balloon,
watched the earth
shrink
smaller and smaller until it was a trifling, pea sized ball.
                                  I felt so light.
 
                                        The moon was a field of flowers:
poppies and tulips and whatever you like and the grass waved a welcome and we laid
                                               right down.  I looked at
                                                    the sky,
                                                         still blue here and thought about our getaway,
                                                                      how it was planned years ago. You were the
                                                                        ones.

The boy ran to his father, embraced in so much love and you girls, twirled, arms outstretched, giggling, flowing with the air, simple, fancy dresses fluttering with your steps and I closed my eyes, smiled
and relaxed.
Then He and I floated on a raft crafted from wood, square and big enough.

                                           Fear did not exist.


Poetry Jam

Love is determination

Love is determination.
                         Nothing more, nothing less.
This,
I have determined.
           It's neither lofty
                nor unattainable. Not
gushy,
gooey, grand.
I'd say it's work but
            that's cliche and love hates cliche.
                       It's choice, gleaning, grit.
Sheer but strong.
It's overthought and underdone,
                        a battle.
noble, gentle and hardly touched,
 loyal,
 present ever,
                         rising at night with crying babe, toiling in menial tasks.
                           It gives when emptied,
 found in silence, best.
Rare, delicate, less exciting than one would guess.
             It's
             intention, earnest,
patient when ill expressed, laborious but not impossible,
                    It will wake you in the dark,
drive you to your knees, not grouped with green but
                                                                         blue.
Crimson compliments, creating
violet and
             gambols less like
butterflies than settles
 heavy as lead.  If this be not
    the case, then love,
I know it not.
        Worn often by lesser creatures, attired
                                                             in shabby rags.
                                                            It growls in a mother bear,
stupefying, warm as
                                                                        sun,  For a man, I've known it once and grappled with its terms.
Now, not laid to rest but
found in different form,
 I surrender,
acquiesce,
allow,
 put down my thought with pen.

My own words taste stale
       or like a favorite meal,
      overindulged in too many times.
                              They knell in my head, a warning,
fly
                                                                   from mouth,
chewed on, still, out
            of habit.
                     They've grown dull at best, sickening, stomach turning in their worst
but I can't shut up.
     Incessant,
loud and lusty,
 they repeat
              the same old bull shit.  I need a mute button and a
                                     loss of ways to
                                                 write or the courage to choose from the menu,
                                                                                            something new. Monopolizing,
                                                                                               mastering my
                                                                                               mind,
vacuous as rhyme.
With heaven
  as
  a witness, I do solemnly swear
        to tame
       the
       tart, suffer silence,
              stave
              self-consuming, vain and vaulting verbiage.
                                                         Later.
Facts are vapid,
                                                                     feelings
                                                                     favored but my truth gritty on my tongue
                                                                      as your honesty meanders by.  I have to spit it
                                                                           out
                                                                               to save me, ask you what you can not answer..
If you could see me now, see me at all,
the burden of my song would shock you, the scandal of thieving seasons, the lyrics of
                          swelling heart, auditioning for a role I'm too
                                                       old to play now.
Ripen a new year without me, a chapter without my account, my
fluency is fleeing.  Mourning molehills
     no more.
If you want
               to hear my voice, hearken now.
                                   I'm poetic,
full of point and over bold
                                but for moments
                                            more.
The buffet's closing and I am not a
                                                                      smorgasbord.
                                                                              Get it while it's hot, fatten up and feast on what I've got
cause soon the words will
                       writhe, starved for your affection not
                                    again.
Supple once, superlative
          ever,
stirred by sword, they'll stream lulled
                                         and softened, oil colored,
whole.
 A refrain, thickcoming but anew.
You'll look
back in languor, languishing
        in all you never said, lamenting
                                       lack of valor but in sublimity of station,
I'll stun you with my strength of quiet.

Stating Finally

How ought
  one to know when
         the
            end of love should be?

                              Some might say,
 love,
 if it
be true,
         ends not.

How then, ought
   one to know when
love is true? (If emblazoned flame dims to mere dulled glow can she then be reassigned? 
                                               Destroyed in 
                                                              imagination, existing only in the substance of
                                                                          the actual, whatever that is, does she die with death or answer Hamlet in elements
                           strong and stunning?)

                                  I know not.  I know only this:
                                                  that she whispers relent-
                                                                                lessly, (must we treat her as
                                                                                                              a 
virus, kill her with starvation,
cure ourselves with lust instead? Abuse her in her
    redemption, her assumption,
                         her persistence, harbor
malice toward her tender grace?  Deny pursuit for fear
            of sham? 
Gloss illusions, hoarding piteous imitation, bargain legalities of- 
                               disadvantaged humans that we are.  
     Social dances, we empty purse of sentiments pinched,
 garnering interest as we go, shush her when she comes to supper, call her bluff, her fluff. It makes us blush. 
                        She's blunt and eager, sighing
                                         and we have work to do. 
                                                                  Reduce her to a grudge, shelve her, 
               hold her
tongue,
we of sober mind find solace in naked,
                      natural
void.
She is for the young, the stupid, the uninformed.  What might she say
      if we should listen?)
                                                                                   seeks now to give, requiting less a need than once, twice,
thrice before.
She is truer than
bluer, baser pining, tall and ever guiding, honest in submission, if less so in admission. (She won't be rushed so we snub her 
                                                          healing, sooth marrow with alleviating whim) She speaks
                                                                in silence and in words
                                                                in souls, in hearts, creation.
                                                                         Loudest often in her absence
                                                                                                  and quiet when observed.
                                                                                                                             She's all
                                                                                                                                      and everywhere.
Seen not
when sought by self.
Perhaps, nature, her purer form
        and realized
                                                                 deeper there.
She weaves with
       wind,
sings with swallows, dares to dwell in dust
                   and in these places, I admit, I've often overlooked
             her air.
                   Alone, I hear her
say I'm not and
she whispers
secrets I can not
         tell
and though I'd like to pluck her from the heart (for
what can the 
                  heart know?) and place her somewhere nobler - the soul is safer, the spirit wiser-
                                                                                                          I fear she'd just return.

And so the question haunting; (the
             thorn offending,
scandalous revery, composed of perfect view) this I find, I can return,
            to where love was born or made, discovered or existent all along.

                     In drops, I understand her mystery, exchange musings for her maker.
     Make
     me, still.
     Made me
once
 to love, be loved, to wonder
and releasing, I will give
                                                     and receiving, I will
                                                                                live.
"Where there is love there is life."
                     She is true as beauty, beautiful
                                      as truth.
Love
     ends not
for she possesses no beginning.
     She circles life and subject, inviting, not expecting,
hand held out or
     down,
I've grabbed her,
                entered now her orbit, retraction
                 no more a choice than day and night, embodied within a spectrum,
light's glory shining bright
 and encompassed but extended, my own hand travels out; an invitation lacking only expectation,
stating finally,
                love never ends.

Carry On Tuesday
The Music In It

What I Need

Gray suits me and I need you, baby.
             These days of sun
                                   strike
waken me
   and I find myself in need.
                       I want to
bask in sweet nothings and talk for hours,
                            hear your voice.
                                              I've had enough of Shakespeare's sonnets,
Melville's
musings,
Eliot's enigmas. I'm craving simple, lounging dawn-to-dark with television, treats.
   I'm weak.
        Weak without
you
and I need you, baby.
The commonplace, I long for, long nights at your place,
                                                                          please.
I'm falling short of words, not a thing to say.
I'm light and easy, healthy, waiting on your laugh,
                                                              relishing, enraptured by your
captivating superfluity,
                 silenced by your
flourished speech, patiently I'm missing you, desire dilating.
      I want to
              take a back road,
get lost in your gaze, marry in the morn.
             I've had enough of me.  I need some more of you.


Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

The Language That Is Mine

I want
         to pinpoint this.
              I'm like a crime scene investigator, staring at the wall I've covered in overlapped scraps of  information, facts and theory,
clippings of fragmented
                  feelings..
                     
                       I stand back, tilt my head like the angle viewed is going to make a difference.
                       I'm decoding, analyzing hints,suspecting clues; the infraction:  my love for you.
                                             And I want to
                                             add it up,
compare,
contrast,
           simplify,
                  find a reason why,
                                                                   a motive for my heart's rebellion.
                                                                     
 My mind
shines the light, searching
          to expose, drilling as hours pass but my heart won't speak.
Instead she counts the minutes, waiting to escape, plotting her next move.
            She sees
            something I don't
              or, rather, cares not for rhyme or reason, explanations,
                                     sense.

The writing's black and white but the lines are blurred
                             and what should be is not
                             and what should not be is.

                                                    Desirous cravings, hormonal, temperamental,
                                                                        vision clouded by recent famine, you've intruded
                                                                         into all I thought I knew.
                                                                         I sift through
your indecision, comb uncertainty
                                           and come up in equal knots, a categorical, entangled mess.
                                                                                  The elements
dissent and I protest but
                        oh,
 it's no use.
I can't steady any supposition, proposition, the mad frenzy of imagination trumping meaning.
    Apologize for absence with jagged excuse,
                                                      dim the lights, I'll forget the schism between what I know and what I  want,
flex beneath every unuttered promise,
                                            parse not for missing punctuation,
waste in expectation till
      the truth
settles like dust upon my shoulders, bare.

            It's coming and the wind is blowing,
                                          whispering her own  amour,
                                                                         alleviating all
remaining compositions of unmatched
                     parallels, drawing
                                             genius from my
countenance,
metaphor from proof, manifesting
mystery from my
    sinner's strut.
            Reduction, renewal,
            reaffirming weighty
                             the purpose of the song.

I'll leave
you lambent, basking
            better, not my own.
                   Relish rareness,
                       I like your quiet way.  I won't retract
                                             the language
                                              that is mine
but
    the muse,
             she goes with me, poesy prancing
                                        past your narrations so
                                                        neatly lengthened.

Free will carries far.

       
Wonder Wednesday

Beyond

Oh, leaping heart, frisky
                            flitting like birds from
                                            branch to branch, on a primrose path,
                                                 never pausing long enough to truly
                                                                                      see the new,
 blue wild or hear the lyrics of the  brook; her come away tune.

    Oh,
       heart, these days, your own song rings hollow, listless,
                              searching phantom pleasures
while beyond these walls you've built, there's glory.

Fly beyond.
Fly high, beyond the bounds of rocky confines of mutable moments.
Perch,
      heart,
lofty and noiseless, listen to the silence of your desire.
                   Soar above dry land, dry seasons.
Flight is yours
but fly.
 Rush no more.
Although, the land is safe,
you were born for air.

At Jingle Poetry and The Sunday Whirl

Estimation

I smile sweetly
and
    don't know why,
feign agreement, casualty of
frame and form,
lay down- and you...
I struggle to know myself, so surely
                   know not you.
But I try.  I've tried.  Why must I keep trying?

      If love is a game, my strategy backfired, so I review, recall my
                           moves
to see where I've miscalculated and find it's been all along.
                    I've over and under estimated us both, danced vapid, showed weakness at every turn.

                                            Did I know what I was doing?

                                                           Was I drawing out, deliberately, exposing not your vulnerabilities but   mine,
allotting power in some grand scheme, my ego trumping reason so that when you beat me to the
            punch, I never knew what hit me?
                                         Was I unclear about who I was,
                                           where I belonged, to whom?
                                            Was I tiptoeing all over lines of caution, playing with that proverbial fire,  thinking I would not be
                               burned?
Or am I so unfinished in mind, I could not recognize your own growth implosion?  Did I wrongly imagine that
                                                                               your hands could fix me, get me right?
                                                                                            Did I lie, too?
                                                                                                          Truth is, now, I don't suspect I discerned your colors,
blurred my own
 and hoped for genius.

Do you lie now or did you then? Or rather
did you tip me off?

   I fear this all but most:
             the theory
             that at
my core,
I allure the worst.
        That I give to get, not love
 but condescension , that I might agree, take stock, confirm the liar that's lied  to me from start.

Congratulations.  Your triumph, my design.  Your mental reservations seem
               a sham
                and this colorable romance, artful.
Your absence of excitability swells ironic
                               in timing and in plot.
                                     My mildness
                                                   equals your composure.
                                                             Your performance lacked grandeur.  You alluded nothing but my skill is
such that I can translate even that.
Before your wonderful came something lovely but of that you wouldn't know.  Therein, your big mistake- ignorance or arrogant assumption that there's
   no back story.
                 There's always back story.

                           So now,
                                    what keepsake should I take? That last bold denial of assertion? That I might learn that dissapointment's one thing, disrespect another?  That preparing as I did for one, vain expectations blinding, ignoring counter evidence, I unprized myself?

But manifesting now, I'll expose us both, draw man from woman self.
               

To Taste You

Every mood was set
                    with
                     wine
or beer- it didn't matter.

You tasted better, when paired with
                             warmth of spirit
                                and me - I spoke better when sipping brandy or the like.
                                And those warm, summer porch nights, remember?   Where we
                                      talked away the night, impressed by our own drunken
                                               depth of insight, a tightly woven mashup of flavors, you and I, creating      essence as the midnight hour crept ever closer,
                                 The flavors of your words, round and smooth, linger like sugar rocks dropped, popping on my tongue.  We said then that we would no doubt become better with a little time.  How is it
                       that we knew, silly and young as we were.
                                             
                                                 I haven't had a drink in years but I can still taste the evening, wet
                                                                                                                                           with rain and desire,
    smell the plum mix of cheap elderberry, hear the craving inducing call.
                                           And now.
                                                  Now, I want to taste you sober, go back, hear you once again, know                  though different, it's still the same.



Prompt from: https://twitter.com/EDayPoems
article used:http://www.localwineevents.com/resources/articles/view/857/a-roundup-of-three-pinot-noirs-from-garnet-vineyards

Seattle

Do you remember walking downtown Seattle?  The aromas of,
  of course, coffee,
                       filling every space, mingling with all that rain to come, rain that
                                                                          had been-all that damp.
                                                                            And we ate pizza, Chicago style,
Italian style, whatever style because pizza was my favorite, along with you.
     And everything was affordable because we had no knowledge then of
                                            families or budgeting or mortgages. 
We
were
kids playing house.  Sort of.  Except that
                                                                 then I was never any good at it.
                                                                               We went
                                                                               when grey was turning green       
and we, too, were still so
green
and
at night, your arms around
                            me, long,
                                  like the branches of all those trees
                                  in that sad but promising state, surrounding me when
                                   I’d cry, my tears natural there where it rained all the
                                                       time.  My
                                                                   mood dreary
                                                                                       as
                                                                                       any winter in Washington.
                                                                                         No sunset noticeable in                
a place where no sun shines
and so I didn’t see we
                                  were cleaving but for a time
                                                           because Broadway plays and bookstore
                                                                           browsing were all that lay on the
horizon of my still young heart.
                                                 A life planned to echo youth and a hope that
                                                                                          you would always be my haven.
I saw Jesus in you,
                         you know.
                                        When time after time and trip after trip, you carried
                                                         me home and watched me sleep.  When
                                                                                      we sang in church and
                                                                                                           hiked mountains of forgiveness,
weathered headaches and hangovers,
roommates and pour the wine
and philosophical talks past the wee hours and I translated poetry into
French but couldn’t translate my own slurred language into sense.
                                             And your patience took me through.
                                            And I remember everything.  Things I shouldn’t
                                            And I don’t have a clue who you have become
                                                                                                                but
those memories form imagination and it’s not hard a stretch to find you well.




At Bluebell Books and accepting award from Hyde Park.


I nominate C Rose

We arrived in a whispery
winter
and I remember saying,
“This isn’t
     so bad,”
          as the snow danced down.
         Bundling the babes
                in
                 new coats
                           and
snapping photos
              of their delight
at catching flakes on tongues, their glee contagious.

And then,
      though the
seasons
came and went,
I fast
  found,
for me,
an interminable,
    inescapable, exhaustless
frost.

The winter of our discontent
lasted five weary
                    years,
or maybe, the discontent
           belonged to only
me,
I, blue, like the white, in spite of
                                    or because of
the sun, the brightest star-
that
tease.

I created two snow angels
in that promising white
     and they melted me for a while.
                                           I watched four children
                                                 then and there
                                                 take with ease
                                                 the
falling,
freezing,
slushing,
sweating.
      And I heated cocoa,
weathered blizzards,
      travelled roads of ice,
                drew warm baths
                          and soaked their illumination
when skies
        spanned
gray for days.
  And tried.
         Tried to
glean joy
                or at least, peace
by their example.
    They forgave the climate
but my heart was freezing in my chest.

I returned to winter
            during summer
to see my mother
but
   though bare of bite
    the land still scant
of anything I would
                want.

I sat alone
with no one,
knowing why
        I left.

Loneliness is worse than hell
         so, home now, in (some
        say)
unbearable torridity,
my heart glows
       at last
in good company.

Submitting at Bluebell Books and Tuesday Tryouts

You are not who you were
which is not 
                   to say
                           you are no longer who you were
but that
I see you different-
   so differently now.


Through eyes that opened
     only over
time
and so I come back here now
and 
at first, feel
nothing.
No sinking, no sublimation.
Feelings as flat as this land,
until I drop in the grass
                                and remember not who
you were but who I was.


The dreams I birthed here, along with two baby girls
             and your kindnesses shown me- 
                                                             my art. Remember?
                                                                    And I see that we tried here in the field of dreams for a                                     miracle
but it was not heaven,
                  nor was it hell.  It was -
                         what?
Vast space for trying.  I've realized lately that I'm not much good at anything
but
    trying.
My talent is for trying.


It's the air and
      the breeze of this state.
My aspirations swaying like the clothes
                                   I hung on the line in the back yard.
                                                                     The clouds trick memories with
                                                                      their fat 
                                                                               fluffiness, prompting pretty
                                                                                                 promises.
                                                                                                       Maybe it wasn't your fault.
But I can't come
back or go back
because, also, your arms around me,
that sensation is 
       so vague, I have my doubts
              as to its truth.


And we departed like thieves in the night,or rather,
                               I did, you'd left much earlier and somehow I knew I was leaving for good and      


taking my heart with me, there would be no turning back.


And I see two people we sort of knew
                   within the first hour
and why do I blurt out 
                             to the
second?
Maybe 
        because the first has read my words and knows
              and so when I tell it to
                                      the next and she asks
if it
was my choice, I pause just long enough
                                              that my answer sounds a bit less than 
 honest.  And then it's awkward, me sharing
                                        with a stranger.  I don't miss this lack of
                                                anonymity 
                                                at all.


It's funny how places have a way of defining, how they represent so much. 
                How they transport
in our blood so that even a three year old seems to sense that she belongs here, if only by 
           birthright.
           "I want to
be alone here," she tells me.  And I get it.
                                                          It's how I feel enveloped by the heat
                                                                                                                    and
                                                                                                                         driving past low, brown mountains. She
marks the need by lack of city noise and softer weather.  
                                               I envy her in a way, 
                                                                        wondering why
this place can't
              call me.
Why I feel only a hazed sense of familiarity here.  There's still
           few places or people I want
                                                        to see.


Sitting close to my mother,
wanting this closeness
         I see what 
                         this place means to her,
                        that she knows it's in
                         her blood.
I understand.  I see that she, too,
chooses isolation here and also
               I see why I do not.


These homes, temporary though
they are,
give illusion of permanence and though our minds chart many a course, our hearts stay
                         planted.
But I just wish I could remember us better.  Here or there or anywhere.  It's fading so quickly   
now.
    Was it ever real?
Or was this 
             time and place laid low
                                        like a shadow, an imitation of our
                                                                            thoughts?