For forty years, We walked days through, Asking strangers known, “How are you?”” Without really wanting to know. Our answers in kind, A litany of fines And greats and couldn’t be betters. All the while, Parts are chipped away. Our edges rough Like antique china tea cups. It is thus Life becomes measured out In phrases, And we speak of it In stages and ages Of what is next for us. Told to be grateful for what I have, I never mourned the losing Of what was wanted once Now forgotten, Or regretted, Or never attained In the first place. Until forty years have flipped Through the fingers Like the pages of a dusty book With yellow crinkled pages Written in faded ink, An anthology of years, For each of us.
On this southwest horizon, We meet once again, and We watch sunrise and sunset. Our heads bent toward each other As if in prayer. Our hair a tangle of silver and white In the winds of New Mexico. Only time will tell What comes of this Tangle of loneliness and longing.
Here, under a Ruidoso sky,
You remind me:
An extraordinarily warm spring day
Spent in a field somewhere
In Lancaster County, PA.
Where exactly? Well, now,
I could not really say.
I’d never find it again,
Even after taking the memory
Down off the shelf
And dusting the cobwebs away.
I remember the day in snapshots
Before we trampled, stomped, burned
our youth:
The drive from Baltimore
In your little black sports car.
The top down. The wind
Running its fingers through
Your copper hair.
The glitter of your crystalline eyes
In the morning sunshine.
The softness of 501 jeans washed
A thousand times.
Your artist’s soul looking for the
Perfect spot, rejecting several
Before perfection found,
A sun-drenched meadow amid
Pine trees. No Amish around, you said.
The care you took with blankets
And picnic basket and, of course,
Your ever-present sketchbook.
Cheeses, bread, fruits, and wine
You packed.
I read.
You sketched.
We ate and drank.
Then, I posed for you,
The first time.
No one was around.
No one could see,
You said and so
You shucked me
Of clothing and
Arranged me
And my long black curls.
You sketched me
And said you wished you
Had your paints.
Copper and black hair
Tangled together.
And the sun low
In the sky. We
Packed the basket
And folded the blanket.
Some 40, 41 years ago.
Snapshots of that day.
Why remind me now?
We trampled, stomped, burned our
Youth down. Oh, yes. we could tease
"Here come and sit, where never
serpent hisses, And being set,
I'll smother thee with kisses."
We’d do nothing better in the
Here and the now were we to tangle
Silver and white together.
Lies were told, I know.
For once, I wanted to believe.
Your truth telling services,
I do not need…
And the tangling of silver and white now, just--
The braiding of loneliness and longing
Leaves us soulless.
Tell me a truth
of burning flames.
Better yet,
Chant me all the truth
Of a holy rosary.
Or would you whisper a truth
Of a head on a silver platter.
Perhaps, you’d like to
Express the truth
Of a dance through the city.
Or act out the truth
In the washing of your hands.
Could you do all that,
Plus destroy a temple or two,
And it be the truth
Of your heart?
I know you say it would
But no bushes burn,
No seas part,
No lepers heal,
No dead rise
When you know nothing
Of your own heart and soul.
Set out years ago
Dropped breadcrumbs
Some no bigger than dust particles
Of the soul
Along the roads and paths
Thought I’d find my way back,
There’d be time
There’d be years
Be months
Weeks
Days
Seconds
Left before the sand
Absconded with the hourglass
To find the trail of dust and crumbs
Sweep and pour them
Back into the soul
Add a few ingredients
Create once more
From the beginning
But birds and squirrels
Feasted on the leavings
And I’ve no desire
To return to where I started.
Spun out from the centrifuge
Twisted in helix meaning
Strands entwined, twisted back
Stretching toward history within heritage
Search through the montage of time
Sift through pounds of truth and lies
For a few ounces of purity
Measured out within the mess
The now was the past
Where to walk
We travel back
On twisted helix roads
To the selves we were
So very long ago
And learn
The future braided
In the past
With the now
And made us whole
What truth is there but this?
Contained within the sand, wind,
An inky blue sapphire sea
Watching whales and seals play
As they sing their songs of joy
I listen
Their language so foreign to me
A vocabulary of rejoicing
In all that God has made
I can neither interpret nor define
Within this human construct
That it seems God forgot
Yet I seek to know
What they say
Of love
Of grief
Of play
Of joy
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