These Early Years

Today, it rained. And I was thinking of you.

Water fell hard. Like pebbles.

Like little hopes

and silly daily fears. Water splashed upwards-

from the ground- in those miniature

earth-scented volcanic eruptions,

and I was thinking of you- your hands,

the gale force of your laugh.

 

Water sheeted off the planes of

the neighbor’s roofs, in cascades

like panes of temporary almost glass

separating a home’s inhabitants

from the world around,

and I was thinking of you.

 

You. Just you. As the inevitable way

we will reminisce on these early years

when we grow older. You, the same

way a book whose heart is opened

in the rain, is transformed like me,

like salt.

 

The air today brought premonitions

of December. The rain carried:

the icy glares

of disapproving small-town neighbors,

the rising yeasty scents of

things not yet formed,

of warm bread not yet baked.

Of the fireplace of the heart.

Another year ahead of us.

Another year of dust waiting its turn

in line

to turn back into water.  

 

Another year of raindrops

and moonlight

of those small rocks like wishes

and giant boulders of half-submerged

desires. The fertility of tree pollen

and the courtship rituals of the

grackles hanging from branches

outside my window every May.

 

Another year I am sure I will love you.

Of books remembering the sunlight

that are written while storm clouds

gather and the sky is lit

with celestial strobe effects,

And all of it, every last wonderful

detail of all of it-

Will keep telling me, to think

of you. 

Reviews

[drew garner]

Not my normal cup of tea, but you obviously have a very special talent. I am always happily surprised to come across great poetry that is fundamentally sane.

[lawrence bear]

Nice piece. Very moving. Love it.