languages are ending melted into each other for useful reasons; shared bread, the direction of wind how close to build the lean-to
and already there’s no word for the nuance of green out the back window, no absolute way to show a spider- web hung between the spindly twigs of the hawthorn, tiny pearls of water on each strand juxtaposed with the red berries of late fall
and hardly any way to convey how much I love you with words
At my desk in my NEW office I can see the sky shifting into dusk the clouds backlit in a peach glow hover over your part of town one building or another peers across the tree line toward me
I imagine your chin lifted, eyes cast downward through prismatic lenses a dense legal document displayed on your glowing screen
Here the quiet of evening descends and I send you a quick message flicker through the thick language of your argument for a brief interlude to let you know I love you across this varied palette we call sky
the poem starts after the walk, while we’re rinsing the red brown mud from E’s black suede tennis shoes under the spigot, at the top of the East Ridge trail and the water was so damned cold, and E, barefoot and cranky, was pouting in the backseat of the Honda
did we notice the Eucalyptus smells, squish of mud underfoot, and the Redwood trees? did we listen to the rivulets streaming down the path as we stepped across in avoidant measure? and as my son, bright blue signal in petulant distress lagged behind us or careened ahead, eight year old self intent on exclusion did we note the crisp clarity, the shimmer of winter sun?
later, as the tantrum mounted and his mighty boyhood dead father’s sword in one hand, small pointed knife acquired on a Quito foray, gripped in his still pryable palm, did we taste that bitter coffee on our breath? and as I led him into the steaming shower, washed him with watermelon shampoo and reassured him that he was safe, that I was not leaving, even in love outside his known realm, did we feel the heat rising?
when sunset hit the sky out my bedroom window and you kissed years of tear tracks off of my glowing cheeks, when you invited E upstairs to see the pink and orange range, that redwood forest walk with all its delicious mud and power took hold, stationed itself in my heart and I leaned into you
she transcends in order to awaken in order to accept take in, subscribe to the bitter tea, the remedy for her conjoined history at once logic and fantasy the tall clock ticks and a gentle grandmotherly ghost purses her lips
it’s not time she wants to alter not the way she can float up and down the aisles of the open market, fresh kale and plump radishes in her blue bag free samples of sweet dried peach lingering on her tongue she likes, appreciates, admires, enjoys thrills at, relishes the wafted hours
but the rational realm must also endure what to cook each night and when to fold the laundry these tasks conflict with imagery there is nothing symbolic about the crease in his pant leg, the folded towels left strewn on a sofa the crimson roses bleeding out of their vase
she musters her memory, recalls the rise and fall of her once supple frame, the imaginary ecstasy of what appeared true and trims the ends of the tulips, replaces the roses with wide open purple orange, purple, orange allows their cellulose stems into her day
