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.

Did you come calling this afternoon?
You say I wasn’t there,
But I spent the entire afternoon
Waiting, waiting for you
Thinking you would come calling

Maybe I was dreaming
When you came calling
One of those times when
Things slip away
And are never remembered

Maybe that’s when you came calling
While I was dreaming a blackout
Big dreams I won’t remember
I sure wanted to see you
And you forgot to leave a note.

When the wind drops off in September,

Chatterings of the old men can be heard.

From over the old cobblestone fence,

Where the moss holds fast in summer,

A slow-moving memory of winter

Tucked among the stones.

.

Oh, and the men tell stories,

Chewing the dried stalks of grass,

Like wands hanging from their teeth,

Proclaiming truth to their words.

.

When the wind drops off in September,

They know to convene at the old stone wall.

.

This is where they come to

Laughing, chewing,

Gesturing to their memories.

Those bits and pieces that follow along

Normal lives of grief and joy, woe and hope.

All bringing life back to the old men now

All there perched along the old stone wall.

.

This is the place they would come,

And bite deeply into those old places,

Or maybe just wave their wands,

Watching the sun cast long October shadows now,

Letting the tales of others color the afternoon.

.

Then like the afternoon wind easing away into evening

They would part company, off to another time,

Where all those things didn’t need to matter,

.

Or until it was all forgotten again and they had to reconvene,

Along the old stone wall, a september meeting,

Where the grass still weeps with the young girl,

The sun sighs a last greeting before dipping past the trees,

And the old sign rattles on the fading breeze.

In the memory the day is quiet,

That day the big wind blew up the valley.

Yes, the kind of wind that explodes.

.

I remember the booms and lights.

Raked by creaks and groans of a straining gale,

Sifting through the always darkening skies.

.

I forgot the look in my brother’s eye.

There, that same light, against dark skies

Telling me, pulling us, outside

Into the fields, where wind upon wind

Would pull us along a day-long voyage.

.

Off in the corner of the pasture,

The last of the haystack.

Still tall, now a monument against all this.

Unmoving, challenging.

.

There we could climb to the top,

Unfurl a big cloth and dream

of flying to the stars, while crashing down

To the soft, loose hay below

.

In the memory, mom’s voice reaches out across the

crashing and howling, to bring us back home.

In places, say the small lots along the road,

The last rays falls across as a long sigh

This light stretching across the now tall grass

Pulling itself into every last corner

That somehow escaped the day

And every last bit of winter.

Stretching time along with it,

A stubborn tribute, to those long, golden afternoons of Fall.

Maybe.

.

Further down the road,

Beyond the yards, the fields exhale the end of the day

With a late breeze coming up the valley

Sending the tall grass shimmering golden.

Here the day is alive, unsettled.

Big.

.

Overnight came the tall grass,

and this one day the sun came down to meet it.

Yes, the still, golden evening that lasted forever.

What it was like when I was here?

That imagining passed long ago.

.

Here, I’ll let that last breeze carry me to the new fields.

And forget all that lunacy then.

All along the way we find the pieces.

Pieces to build with,

All again, all new,

The ideas found in old dreams,

Where paths uncurl,

Into ways we dreamed back then.

Long ago, those days almost passed.

Those dreams still living in corners,

Where dust collects on the places we meant to go,

Before summer’s gentle fog,

Passes over and leads us down other paths.

But still, here they are

Little pieces scattered.

Waiting for this time now.

Your soft hand to cradle it,

And ask me if I remember.

Hushed light painting a still December afternoon

A place where morning can never quite conclude.

Where the hills sit in long rows, waiting for something to call.

.

Somewhere here, a trail always searched for, old rusty sign dangling from the same branch,

Waiting to rattle on the next wind. Just like it always was.

Along the rocky slope, through the oak trees, and onto the more gentle grassy slope below,

So much more to trudge.

.

Little paths wander through the bunch grasses

Dried and standing tall, golden celebration of summer

On this eve of winter’s arrival.

Captured in a moment of exhale where nothing stirs.

A new dream now, with the old things scattered around.

.

There you lay, quietly trembling in tears

Falling and sliding down a long blade of grass

Maybe the only rain, this time.

You might lay here for a thousand years, finally letting the long grassy wands bend over,

To offer you comfort,

Or to cry with you.

.

Further down the trail, an old stone fence,

moss-covered, where the old men once sat swapping secrets

Told a dozen times over while the grass scratched and swayed

On a late August breeze

Letting in a moment of quiet to their familiar banter.

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 dreamed 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 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.