Finally…
The hissss of light rain on river,
A day of this,
After the wind,
Settles summer’s score.
Now salmon stir
In the new, sweet water.
—- OR —-
DRAFT 2:
Act 1: Summer’s score,
Patiently settled by the wind.
Act 2: Soft skies,
And the long hiss of light rain,
On a late afternoon river.
Act 3: In the new, sweet water,
Salmon stir.
This is what I wanted to say
Before I fell muttering over sour coffee:
.
On october 19, at sunset,
A bright glow traces the place where summer ends
And the promise of winter begins.
.
Never quite seen then.
Sure, we’ll get the hope, But
Only see how summer has gone woefully stale,
Even wrong.
.
After a few more years,
The rhythm plays loud,
Then, the time will come,
And catch us muttering,
As we look far across the field,
Into the bright October sky.
.
In the book of rhythm, October came first
Sprawled across the evening sky,
tracing a frail line between grace and hope.
.
Then I would come into the cafe,
Mid-morning,
Confident and tall,
This was my time, again.
Only to fall muttering over another coffee
I never needed.
.
I think you were waiting to hear the stories,
Tales on sparkling wings,
And In my rehearsals, they stretched far,
oh so far.
Following the line above,
Far away from the endless taunts,
Tossed around by the sophisticates of diligence
Lying in wait around the next corner.
.
In the time before rhythm,
there were only secrets,
Scattered across far fields,
Where no one has yet wandered.
.
Come again October,
So I might be your guest
In the grand palace of of your light,
Where your shadows tall,
Guide us into your soft arms.
A child’s echo across the field,
Wafting on sun and warmth,
Hovering for a moment, lingering.
Like a long time ago,
That one laugh,
Wild, excited discovery,
Stirs an afternoon nap, however brief.
When new light finds the old window again,
And traces the hard line of rain across the sky,
Marking the place where even the restless wake
From a sleep they so patiently waited for.
Old pavement pulls the street through years
Times of sand tossing curly haired kids
In dried grass: the habit of neglected August,
Swallowing all of late winter’s craving
Into dusty, cob-webbed corners,
Missed by heaven, skipped by hell –
Once sharp places, long gone stale.
.
Pale skies cast through wrinkled gauze,
Illumed with worried skin,
Pallor of a re-ran TV set,
Where smoke lingers,
Coffee goes warm, then sour
And a chorus of days hangs in the hour.
.
Tattered screen, leaning fence –
That hard line parting the space of time
From the washed light in a dusty corner,
Speaking truth, three doors down,
Along a street, at the edge of town.
Usually, it never starts with a dream
The dream meticulously sculpted into an expectation
So perfect that the cries of ecstasy roar along the river
Erasing any hope of stillness that might have been there
Had nothing ever been imagined in the first place.
.
Hmmmph
.
Usually it never starts with that first sight
That look into perfection that never was dreamt any better
Better than last time, but only to be washed away
With enthusiasm misplaced and gone awry
In manic flailings trying to capture it all in one fell swoop.
.
Ohhhhh
.
Sometimes, admittedly, it might start with a splash of apathy
Because it has to be done and here we are
And along the way it becomes the next dream
And the perfection reveals itself in little debates
Comparing this to that and wondering if this is even better.
.
Oooooohhhhh
.
Always, though, a script unfolds, eluding time’s wicked arrow
Bathed in a moment eluding any grasp of perfection
Surrounded by silent calls and responses each asking nothing
Together, creating the pulsing song of a mid-winter river.
The asbestos shingle fell off long ago,
Along the wall in front,
Where the living room hides behind closed curtains.
She won’t recall when or where it even went.
.
The yard, larger than most,
Along this back street of small homes
And odd-sized yards.
Is only slightly overgrown,
In the way that chores
sneak past habit,
To sporadic neglect.
.
Ringed in a low fence,
That once kept a dog in,
Or a playing child safe from harm.
.
Simple things like that, they once had,
Or at least dreamed of.
.
But years of cigarettes and drink,
Took him
From her,
In a long night of oblivion.
.
Happily-ever-after into eternity
Came to an end,
Suddenly.
.
But she stopped crying long ago.
.
The days now might looked rehearsed,
Her shift at the grocery store,
Unchanged for the last three years.
.
There was the time her brother came out
And the fellow down the street,
Who would call from time to time,
Their appearances so long ago,
But seeming like yesterday.
In a place where time keeps pace
With the falling of an asbestos shingle
From the living room wall.
.
She rarely looks me in the eye,
Like she did then,
Pulling off a cigarette,
While the sun casts crimson
Across a high cloud deck
With a single opening out east,
Where she imagines great blue winged dragons
Will fly in,
And dance around the yard.
That winter, they fought tooth and nail
Over how best to prune the apple tree.
Dad: sure in his years, like the tree
Perhaps their best years gone by
Or the most celebrated to come.
.
And, Son: the new idea,
Like newfound loves,
Light, lively and vigorous.
.
Tree: wind worn, deer scraped
And broken long ago,
Now crooked like time
In places where things move little,
To those who have the patience to see.
.
Picture Dad: looming over wrinkled pewter skies
Tall on the visions he nurtured long ago,
While the long angles of his fingers,
Turned and knuckled, like the branches,
Tracing the grand plans he still holds,
Across a chill February wind.
.
And Son: bright, leafy shade tree
For long naps in summer sun,
While his places, perhaps dormant still,
Waiting for Spring warmth
Like the budded branch,
To be rattled and tested on the next stormy wind.
In other years,
Those times, now hastily sealed in envelopes,
Memories of those days of rain:
An incessant November after a scorched Halloween,
Or cold February rain, broken by snow,
Gusting loud and clear that afternoon,
In another damp celebration,
To the beat of scowling wind and staccato raindrops.
.
Winter’s pulse traced across every window.
.
Then, rivers of emerald velvet,
Concealing cobbled dreams,
The electricity of fish,
And the hard lines of trees
Against soft winter skies.
.
We dreamed of things outside us.
.
Now, we wake in the crisp, tingling night
Like the sound of a pin snapping,
Where it lingers on the cold edge of dawn
And stretches under the long fetch of winter sun.
.
Summer’s long pause distilled and bare.
.
These days trudge on,
Held fast under shadowy chill
Where summer escaped,
As we wonder if it ever left.
.
We will remember this time.
The pace of mornings might seem slow,
Or pass quickly,
It does not matter if the river is loud,
Or passing out the soft gestures of frog water
Gone chilled and clear.
.
So that rivers might fill.
.
Right when morning comes to light,
that’s when the sun,
In a desperate attempt to push into the day
Fails, falling back into the clutch of evening,
Or morning,
Depending on the pace of it all.
.
Autumn now turned cold and brief.
.
Call it empty, quiet or lonely,
Dictated, in part, by the light
Pinning afternoon into one single moment
Of a day that cannot linger here.
.
Summer’s sway long gone.
.
Each time, like the call home
From a forgotten lover never met:
This time of shadowed rock,
And snowy alcoves,
We come here again.
.
Waiting for the rain.
Shaken Rain 