October 20, 2019

• meadow's edge

  "

  

  i wish i could find words that have not been ruined."

  a chilly night at home, poems pressed
  between the pages of my heart
  and the mark of a far land, where
  the sun highlights fir trees
  at a meadow's edge in my dreams.

  it almost seems the wind
  conveys an urgent message,
  like a poem by Szymborska
  you have never heard a bird call
  with such homesickness as this owl
  outside my window, nor a river whisper
  with such tender understanding.

  the descending darkness stirs
  up the sighing leaves covering the ground
  and all the sounds of night become
  a thousand words, mumbled repeatedly,
  like swaying willows on the riverbank
  entangling me.

  in this unpoetic life of worrying about daily
  details,  truth and trust are concealed deeper
  than ever in fears that drag on year after year,
  in quarrels, in angry outbursts, in suspicion..

  and i know that you know
  that getting together is easy.
  (the thing that's difficult, is staying..)
  a face of wind and frost,
  the evening sky that turns away--you should know
  that i accept these things.  i will not turn
  back the pages of a diary to look
  for you when you are gone.

  last night as i boarded that train
  of darkness, i thought of a song
  about an illusory butterfly and even after nightfall,
  even in high winds and storms,
  i stubbornly realize that
  love will always be my permanent faith

  though the road is long and hard
  and meetings and partings unknown,
  even with torn wings and wilted flowers,
  there is still a kind of persistence and transparency,
  although it sometimes seems cruelly silent,

  and far beyond reach

  • 5:24 am
  • Comments Off