Framing the Wind – a first draft before it all goes away

How the light catches this corner of the kitchen now.

Some effusive glow that might have left us spellbound

And captive to a late afternoon pause.

But that corner hides dust and crumbs

Winters droppings and excuses and dark things.

.

This time there will be no pagan contemplation

Of this full circle before us.

No, this light pulls us away from the long dark

Where we lived maybe close within ourselves,

Intimate

In a way that accumulated warmth and a dim light can do,

Pulling you in while tempting you out

In short fidgety bouts.

.

Now, with almost forgotten suddenness,

Light piles through the window

Like the first time

When it pulled us out there.

A long ways from there.

.

And once out that door,

A long ways from here.

Convinced there were ghosts out there.

This is that time:

.

The long fetch up the hill:

Landscapes of new Spring grass

Flailing and moving.

Ever with the hard line of something

Hidden just over the hill

Waiting to knock at that broad, dark door.

Light now streaking through its edges.

Cheshire Winter

I remember tracing

Across the pale silvery worlds

Of sharpened sounds

Lit by January moons.

.

Curse you,

Impatient rain,

And how you fidget!

.

Casting this land

Into a great serpentine lapse,

Of water and light

With everything sparkling

On a mid-winter’s night.

Part II. Listening to Steelhead.

I cannot counter the edge,

Remarkable, memorable, inexorable

In an odd persistence that wanes in it’s coming.

I cannot shape this space.

Green years, short months and how the day suddenly curves away.

The center is far removed from place and time. Eyes turning to the bright prospects of hard lines on skies.

I cannot yield to grace, as the soft illusions of ease tempt me into the chilled waters.

 

 

December on the Eel

Here,

Moored

By the soft calling turns

Of a river now purposed by rain,

We can linger in that patient lapse

Between the miseries of drought

And the sudden electricity of flood.

.

The Copenhagen-spitting sages of Weymouth,

And the oared helmsmen at High Rock,

Hiding in their closet cigarettes,

Share chit chat smiles of angst

In the nervous dawn light

While the Chinook-crazed bankies

Debate spoon and roe.

.

And a distant figure

Heaves arcing bright lines

Through shadowy secret boils

And long greasy slicks

In a solitary reverie

Of far-fetched feathered hopes.

.

This is far removed

From the life-gone-easy days of,

say, June,

The routines of August,

Or the Sunday light

After a passing April rain

Reminded us all things

Eventually come back to this time.

My Urban (pt 2)

Amazing how a river can hold up

An entire town with its soft calling turns,

In those patient lapses between

The long miseries of drought

and the hasty electricity of flood.

.

This town,

Anonymous lines,

Maps of hope and glee

All folded into once brightly colored boxes.

Now, the intricate creases of lives unwound,

Pressed by the tales of neighbors

On a winter night suddenly come early

And sharpened by rain

At the far side of a dead end court.

.

The long river, now purposed by rain,

Flows through my hands,

Fingers touching current,

Holding it like a breath.

.

The sound of water is everywhere.

My Urban (pt 1)

I can see hands from here,

Pulling years away from the reach of all these new places,

Savoring tarnished doors,

Held open,

In the wet air of night avenues,

Smoky corners

And back seat make outs.

.

I can see your mom on Sunday,

Toiled indifference to our follies,

Our moves to a life so big,

Deftly held in a trembling hand.

.

“Can I see you again?”

Like the buses at the intersection,

Moving to scheduled vistas

Taken like snapshots

From another overpass

With trains underneath

And billowing April clouds

Against the blue velvet of a painting

Hanging on the wall of a house

On some street at the edge of town.