Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sunday morning as rain approached
Sunday morning as rain approached,
we walked by the river among snowing cottonwoods.
I inhaled a pound of lint.
Yesterday I heard a girl I grew up with
lost her husband to cancer.
I haven’t seen her since high school
and didn’t know him.
You should have heard them whisper,
the trees along the path,
the girls with their eyes closed,
thinking no one was about.
Summer sorrows and wedding gowns;
the far-off taste of lips.
The way back is longer than we remember.
We cross it in a breath.
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14 comments:
mmmm
you speak as softly
as blowing curtains
xo
erin
Erin said it best for me,
nice one William...
: )
I feel like them sometimes, Erin. Thank you.
I appreciate it, Brad. Thanks.
so beautiful William,
I think that whole life, is no more than a breath...
Yes.... Thank you, Denise.
yes,
i heard you whisper this
precious poem William.
~robert
Thank you, Robert. When we listen, anything is possible.
You capture so much here of the feeling and the conversations with ourselves that take place at such times. A wonderful voice…
Thanks, Anthony. Somehow, an old friend’s loss and the memories that arose upon hearing of it, became intertwined with what I heard and saw and felt during our Sunday walk. So really, if anything was captured, it was me.
Lovely; I saw some cotton woods just the other day and I wanted to write about it, but lo! here is something perfect :)
This is what poetry is all about, William - you became the melting pot for these different elements of loss and memory and a recent walk under the trees, and out came something very familiar and very strange, and at once belonging to all of us and none of us.
Cassie, thanks. I’m high on your lo! And when it’s ready, your cottonwood poem will write you, every bit as much as the other way around.
Gabriella, you say it so simply and beautifully. I will add only my resounding Yes.
'a universe he will not understand, a universe made of sadness-'
Ginsberg's ETHER I think.
(and made of JOY)
Made of joy, and thanks for bringing yours, Giacomo.
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