There is a sense of oldness in the air,
As though it has been impregnated
With tenderness, delicacy and wisdom.
Ghostly peaks, partially hidden
By knitted webs of thinning wedding veils,
Worn out by generations of stone cold brides,
Remind us of old newness and peaceful departings.
Spring’s forest school alumni,
Ready to embark on their virgin flight,
Darken the air with insecure strong-born wings.
There is the sound of rain falling into lakes
And souls slipping into sunsets,
As though leaves were attached to their backs.
And mornings to come,
With night-trees feeding on shadows
To part ways with the sun.
Those little lanes
Keep haunting me
With their icy surfaces
Or sided with weeds.
I do not miss them, but
I am plucked out of them
Like an unwanted,
And for that I keep thinking
Myself back there
The morning air has been
whipped into frost to mend the
Barrenness of broken paths,
Sunned to death by the sum of
Our loveless days.
Reaching branches, sketched by
Dawn, break black and rise out of that
White and gray sea
Where farmers gather rivers
into veins to thin out
Voices fall silent when the rain stops ,
Like you, inside your fortress, trembling
In the cold, yelling and
Making a mess.
But don’t you feel the warmth
Of the summer days?
Must I follow you with blankets and flowers?
I wish you’d come to me
On your own….
But those small connections
Have still not settled
And we’re alone,
Not in separation, but waiting, side by side
In stations, filthy with discarded paper bags,
For someone…a train,or a ticket master..or perhaps
Just a flightless pigeon,
to slow down and cross
our crooked paths ..