Late at night the wind finally stirs,

Raising tree branches to the window,

And against the lights of town,

Sends shadows dancing across the wall.

Friday night, like the dust settling,

Where the creak of the barroom door,

Opens to a home of ice cubes,

Laying around, melting,

Collecting the heat of the day.

.

The whiskey might be poured

Mixed with the yawn of summer,

Sprinkled with laughter that tests

The little scratches along the bar.

.

Sunset reaches out like a voice

Tapping at the one tiny window,

Peering in the creaking barroom door

With a crooked welcome mat,

Worn, and tired with lifetimes of possibilities

that will languish on that last light.

.

Then the crickets sing,

Like jukeboxes across the sagebrush flats,

As the last working street light,

The life of Main Street, goes dim.

.

That’s when the fightwater gets poured.

And the doors fly open, letting loose

A roar across the desert,

Spewing the sad love songs,

They hoped would be sung together.

.

Not long after,

The last ice cube clinks silently

Along the half empty glass,

Calling for more. While the buzz

of an old street light struggles to life,

and a lone cricket remembers the words.

It was just the turn of your head,

Like the fields where we ran as kids

Tall, through the rolling grass

Skipping, hollering, laughing

endless imaginings!

That was when Springtime never ended.

.

Now we start it off again, here,

like then. Your eyes, your hands

Immersed in the window’s view,

Across the fields, to where the hills rise up

Collecting it all into the little streams

Reflecting in the midday sun.

.

Humming, softly in the warmth of that day

When we opened doors for the first time.

And in came light and breeze and linens swaying,

Entwined in a caress that never stopped.

.

And just as you turn again,

The faint scent of you, lingering.

I never remembered, until now,

like the stream where the oak trees grow,

The tiny home over the hill,

We don’t have to know anything more.

.

Nobody told me it would be quite like this.

.

How was I to know all the questions,

You look away, I wonder,

All of that was answered,

A long time ago. Nothing more.

I didn’t have to.

.

As children, we could study the

Long swoop of a single flower petal,

Seeing the landscapes rise and fall.

.

And in the one moment,

Your sure glance weaving a simple thread

Of lush green garden into my heart.

.

It has been a long time, my love.

.

All those things happened, then.

Now we turn, move into the place

Where the light fades from an afternoon

Sitting in the still air of an early evening.

.

That was your hello.

The story plays out each time I crest the small hill

Especially in March with the first fresh winds.

That’s when this time is just like before

Any every past year at this time

Gets bundled up in this moment once again,

Somehow eluding time,

Or, strings those years together in one long now.

.

The truck rattles over the small hill,

While I still carry the sleep

That barely took hold last night.

One of those rare nights

The tossing and turning

Hoping to shake it off.

.

The thoughts coming as little sprouting flowers

Then roll over once more

To see them as festering memories

That won’t leave.

They come in on that breeze, maybe.

Just like last time.

.

That night the light rain dripped off the eave

Into the puddle by my window

Speaking in between all those thoughts

That can’t quite hear the steady rhythm outside.

.

Rolling down the hill, the day

Seeming like it could be the last

Feeling like maybe the first.

.

The day little routines go wrong,

Bringing a stutter step to the movements

In a day that rings in the last of that

Or ushers in the first of something.

.

This day rides on the hope of something,

This, or that, but really,

All the while,

The day just hovers in between.

Just like it always did.

It’s always just in between.

.

The early evening drive into town

The hum of the tires over the rough asphalt

Turning west,

Where the sun sprawls over the

rain clouds, painting a familiar picture

The colors announcing the last of the day

Or, maybe the first of something.

.

But never in between,

No idea of in between.

.

Like it just might be this,

One-more-time.

So that tomorrow might be the first or the last

Of something.

.

Yes, somehow, I skipped the in between

Coming over that hill this morning.

Forgot that it might be just like it always was

And always will be. In between.

Just barely,

In between.

Barely.

 

In the broadest of strokes,

The brush that paints sky onto land,

So your voice brought sorrow to the downtrodden.

A fortunate sorrow, one seen now,

So that they might cast it all away.

Now they live in the sky

And bring the color to our lives.

On the gentlest Spring breeze,

The last gasp of restless winter,

So your movement brings warmth to the shadows.

And they all curl up into tiny specks,

And whisper all night long,

About the people they used to be,

The people that live on the wings of the wind.

Across the grassy fields,

That roll into distant landscapes,

You sit there, eyes full

of the silent spaces you wish for us all.

An afternoon moment remembered:

Where the last bit of her laughter,

Down to a last breath,

carries, and hangs on the air.

—

This is when every piece of her

Comes forth in smile and laugh,

Seeming just like it always was,

Only to float off,

Leaving a lingering stillness.

Just an afternoon moment remembered.

–

The landscape moves now,

And a story is retold,

In great big drifting circles and musings.

With chapters of far off places,

And quotes from the memories of old men.

–

She tells the story ever so carefully,

While her hands carry it along,

Her arms bringing life to those places,

Her voice filling in the spaces.

–

All this before the long pause in her eyes.

Commencing soon after the laughter

Was carried away on the last breeze,

Letting the memories grow and unfold,

In that fantastic way memories can become.

–

These are the moments found here

Wondering around each day,

Just like before,

And like they will probably always be.

Even better than I remember.

–

Somewhere in the afternoon,

If I look closely, will be that space

That single waiting stillness,

Where her laugh never stops,

And we trace those circles,

Recounting the stories again, all full of life

And see the way things really are.

draft

Back then, I lived in the country

Where town was a place to go, and

All along the way, past fields

And houses and people,

The places never seemed to change.

Maybe, a fall sunset coloring the dried grass,

Or a summer fog bringing a closeness,

Almost a cozy warmth.

Those were the changes that mattered.

If I passed at the right time,

The old man was working in his garden.

His wife unseen, until, passing on my return,

She would be sitting on the porch

Taking note of the tiniest of changes.

All this goes unseen.

…

When I lived in town, things really moved.

Gone were the October sunsets,

And quiet morning fogs.

Now people, and hustle with the expected bustle.

Who knew this happened here?

Buildings, new and old

Signs, meters and billboards,

Cars, fashion and sex.

All of it growing and moving,

All of the time.

…

When I lived in the country,

Town was a place to go,

So that I could come home,

and see those tiny changes,

all along the way.