A Different Kind Of Speaking

O to sit in the lamplight,
with a good book just
beyond the grasp
of your comprehension.
Outside the window
as the cold rain falls,
sits this brown armchair
whose leather holds the hours
of your own warmth
and slowly gifts them back to you.

You cannot tell
from just looking 
at the skin
of an apple- 
a beautiful mix,
streaking red and yellow,
shining in its wax dress-
that it is rotten at its core,
brown and mushed, 
with hardly any
substance at all. 
Sorry to say
that the only way 
to find this out 
in any one 
is to take a bite.

This is the part of my life
when I get nothing done.
I had to steal away during
nap-time just to write this poem.
Will you prepare her a bottle?
Can you grab me a burp cloth? 
Since she is sleeping in my arms...
At this rate I am ten naps away,
if I read quickly, from finishing
my novel, and if I write quickly enough
I am one nap away from finishing
half of something else. 

Do you cry
when a dream dies?

Do you bury
that hope in your heart?

Do you mourn 
the end of that make-pretend
and hold it 
like a corpse 
in your arms?

Do you think of your slain
every now and again?

Do you pray 
for its life anew?

Do you often return
to its grave and yearn
for the joy that dream
once gave you?

Because I do.

I can see the sunrise again
now that the leaves are gone.
Funny how life gets in the way
and how the cold winter wind
cuts you open, peels back 
the darkness, and wakes you 
to the oranges and pinks
held together by the fingers
of twiddling clouds.

And then the yellow maples go
And how brilliantly they cue,
Waving the winter hello,
Bidding the summer adieu.

We loved that house
as if we had formed each brick
with our own hands, laying each
one in its place, knowing each
by name. We moved out and then
moved on, and it felt as though we
had laid its foundation with
the concrete of our memories
and given shape to each story.
Now that the scaffolding was down,
we laid it next to the moving boxes
in the truck bed, like flowers 
beside a grave, and with a deep
breath, we turned, said our last 
goodbyes, and went away.

Life is still precious
with cloudy eyes,
bruised hands and
varicose veins, with
shaky wrists and
chapped lips. Still
beautiful as they lay
eyes closed, deep in
sleep, an occasional
twitch, or a painful
turn of the head 
to a slow smile.
Still precious 
at the end. 

Been here many times before
Same knees
Same God.

Still enough
To feel the wind blow
To watch the butterfly wander
To hear the brook patter
And know it all matters.

It’s still enough for me.