Poetry

I wake in the dark of night,
and remember when I was fast,
running through the humid
summer dusk,
alone.
The joy of moving
was singularly mine,
no fans or audience,
no judgement or failure,
just flying.
This is the youth I 
miss,
the free wheeling,
unmeasured jubilee
of living.

You are the destination,
arrived at by meandering
across the unsuccessful
intentions of others.
To see the sun rise across
your face 
dims the “where ever we are”
into muddy scenery,
the backdrop for
intensely focused conversation
and leaning in,
the essence of having
known each other
since we knew ourselves.
And so planning becomes
being,
a harboring of words
saved for just this.

There is a frosty crackle to 
the grass along the edge 
of the field,
a waiting until the sun
climbs high enough
to be a day.
It is time for planting,
preparing a seed bed,
furrowing the debris
of winter deep under ground.
A deep breath is warranted,
for in it lies
promises kept
year after year,
solid and steady
like you.

Measuring days
minimizes the full effect
of passing time,
the long stretches of 
solitude,
the brief bursts
of frenzy.
Long hours of investment
wither under the 
scrutiny of hierarchies
folded into
identity and ego.
What once lived
within my core
is sloughed off 
like dead skin.
Whether free
or merely adrift
lies in what 
comes next.

The guardians of my history
fringe the waking edge of
my dream,
an oddly connected series
of meaningful events
pulled from shared moments.
My waking hours are
Dashed lines,
spaces filled with
the puzzle I dreamt.
There is comfort
in my inability to create
a linear connection of
past and present,
night hours and daylight,
and I carry your
protection like
a shield. 

Time is the ultimate runaway,
elusive, cunning and slippery.
what was in my grasp
slides into the past,
turning to dust beneath
my feet,
wandering beyond the
path I had already
promised myself.
Memory holds 
as tightly as it can,
a tentative thread
swinging weightless
in the breeze,
connected only 
on one end.

It rose from the ground,
a swelling, living sound
rumbling through my toes,
building.
The edge of Spring
buries the somber notes
of latest Winter,
tingling fingers and 
calling forth from 
full, ruby lips
the chorus of
twirling and laughing.
Rise with the sound,
learning again the feeling
of sun on your face.

You didn’t see me
standing here
in the middle of the road
with my eyes closed.
I tried to flag you down,
with banners,
and bugles,
and a boatload of hope.
You drove right past,
escaping my reach,
fading from view.
I am alone,
standing here
in the middle of the road
with my eyes closed.

How do you know
not to retreat forever?
This strange reversal
of fortune comes
after you stopped moving
all together.
Buried and frozen,
immobilized by
thought and conversation
that swirls overhead,
piling up in that
way that stigma
and fear tend
to pile.
Yet you overcome
the withering,
Hanging on to the 
courage Of memory.
Strength is gathered
in the spaces between,
the rest of seasons
Spent gleaning 
conversations
you hope to have 
again.

We have luxurious conversation,
filled with gaps of fresh air
and pondering.
The kind of random snippets
which fit together snugly,
strung over rivers
of shared time.
Your laughter 
winds through kindred
space,
a silver thread linking
me to you.
This is a story to be
continued,
Forever rooted
in where we came 
from,
forever tendriled
to branches reaching
for the sky.