Summers without end
Inklings Of Hope
I would write love poems for you in green
ink. As the turning years would fade them to
a color of lost hope, it would pain me to know
that in your withered hands the saddest lines
might appear, full of promise and the ironies
that stand as foals in wobbly spring pens, the
new bursting fields alive in the sun, the single
red cherry plucked for your savoring along the
foreshortened length of summers without end.
Lovers embrace their tragedies every day and
we are no different. We held the letting go dearer,
perhaps, because the trick of passing through our
comingled atoms came easier for us. When my friend’s
father passed in his bed I gazed down at his broken
body. I did not think of vital processes ceasing and
becoming stilled, but rather of the lovers that once
held him as if he were a temple of devotion, the still
green poems inked in his heart never again to be read.
Joseph Gallo
July 12, 2011
post-time 10:45 AM
2 Comments:
I marvel at your gift--and of Kyle's, whose blog referred me here. How you two can see and say things so differently from us mere mortals, using words so acutely--as pictures--is, literally, beyond me. It heartens me to know you folks are out there, writing on.
I love the smell of insult in the morning! ;-)
Seriously, thanks Erik, for the kind words. Let me say for myself---and Kyle might well agree with this---that it is because we are mere mortals we're able to dab wordpaint and smudge a moment with arranged consonants and vowels that serve, at best, to approximate what nearly always remains perfectly elusive.
Got that? See? What did I tell you. In the end, without your eyes and heart, what we do matters very little. But we do it anyway because what arrives as a gift is meant to hand over to share with others.
:-)
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