A Different Kind Of Speaking

Rewritten I
Walk right on by
Make a nod of head
Write down, dead.

My past self
Holds much the credit
Buried on a bookshelf
Today I edit.

This cold and brittle town
crunches under the delicate
footsteps of the sun.
She walks around the morning
with a smile, trying her best
not to wake the neighbors.
She greets the wood siding
of homes, the backsides of
trees, the far sides of fallow
fields. There are places she
cannot reach this time
of year, yet still she peers
around the corner, filters
through each branch, streams
in windows and under doors,
as if to assure this young world
Still here, my love. Still here.

South side snow
So slow to go
The sun sits low
Safe in the shadow.

The quiet that accompanies a deep breath
And the quiet that accompanies the maple’s sap
The quiet that accompanies a gust of wind
The quiet that accompanies a noonday nap.

It’s quiet known in our world of noise
And quiet not known by little boys
The quiet for which we ever long
And the quiet following a birdsong.

These patient trees
Wait in one direction
Lean on time itself
In good company.
The forests have taught me
This is no way to live
So parked and planned
So tended and trimmed
So many paths made
By men I’ve never met.

I must be going—
And thanks for the pie
And the wise words to live by
And the faithful
Birthday cards and checks
And calls about my diverse subjects.

But I must be going—
Although with tears
Throughout the years
You held my head
And my hand
And for weeks our weekends planned
And cleaned my feet of sand.

But I must be going, now—
And as you sit there on your bed,
Watching photos of memories fled,
And praying in my stead,
And while it’s not altogether true,
I have a world of things to do,
Like I said:

I must be going now—
I turn and hear the creak
Of floorboards, tan and weak,
And with each step, a seeming mile
I turn to catch your smile
And hope that what I’ve offered today
Was worthwhile.

I was going then.
You’re going now.
I don’t know when
Or in my going how
I missed the chances to say before:
I love you more,
I love you now.

Gifts rattle in her mind
until Christmas-time.
She wraps them up
to dress in art
while just a thought
in the shopping cart.
She runs the stairs
and locks the door,
she spins a joy from
another’s chore.
The paper pulled
to perfect size,
the tape unfurled
within her eyes.
And there she sits
as time permits,
a crease to fold
this morning day,
she sets apart
each gift as gold
and gives her heart away.

Those days between the holidays
of Christmas and New Years are
like free change, jumbling about
in your pocket. Free change sitting
in a saucer by the register. Free
change lying on the sidewalk
around busy commuters. That
free change, those jingling coins,
leftover from the wealth of the year,
can be used to buy a candy bar,
to place in the plate at the church,
or to clean an extra load of laundry.

The might of the night
Each wave crashes still
I cannot see past the dark
But know that soon I will
The faintest cry lies beyond
The faintest light is there
The faintest fear cannot be here
If the faintest hope I bear.

So many old rocks
sit idly near the shore.
Patiently they bear
the battering of waves
and the build-up of salt
and the perch of seagulls.
No wonder they’ve lost
the sharp edges of youth.