08 May 2007
Ground Hog Day
3:07 PM
I came out today
to see if the weather had changed,
and if I might see you,
talk to you,
walk with you
like we did once
so very long ago,
the last time Spring was here.
And I thought of the last time
I saw you, at the airport
(you always fly away)
and our eyes met briefly;
I think I thought I saw you
seeing me somehow different
from what you thought I was,
(and I did not want to think
that it was just my imagination
running away again,
like it always did;
but it probably was),
and I sent you a message,
hesitantly, in a bottle, filling it
with a bit of my heart;
but I guess you never received it,
or did not care to.
Perhaps I should have filled it all?
I would have warmed you once;
but I could not reach you
in that place you live.
And you could not
or (more likely) would not
reach for me. Ever.
Humorous to think,
even to hope, I know;
but even Bête
may dream of Belle.
I cannot go to you, still;
And you I’m sure never
will come to me, I know.
The distance—
which you do so love to keep—
is too great for you.
(I would build a bridge,
but you would only giggle.)
When I exited my burrow
and smelled the scent
of Estee Lauder in the air,
and heard the singing birds,
I thought—
I would have sworn—
that spring had returned at last;
but you were nowhere to be found,
or even wanting to be
(so accustomed to being lost
are you now, that you run,
I know, from those who would seek you out).
That sliver of spring,
And its bitter sweet:
another of your brief strolls,
those state visits,
gracing your truly blessed subjects.
And six more weeks
(only six) of winter
would be good news
just now; for it is good to know
when misery will end
and bleeding cease.
But winter has come,
and means to stay
(winter, always
winter, never
Christmas, eternally
snow, and no skiing);
and I curse the god
who will not bring
you--and the spring--to me,
the god who brought you
so agonizingly, tempting,
within my reach
but never, no never
within my grasp
(such is his adulterated
sense of humor).
Twisted joke.
Friends stop by and say—
undaunted by my perennial refusals—
‘Come, go with us; yes,
let’s go someplace, all of us,
and do something, somewhere.’
But there is no place for me,
no place I could wish to be
if you are not. So pathetic.
If I burrowed into the highest heaven,
were offered a seat on the right hand,
and you were not there,
I would make haste to leave
and return here to my hole;
if I burrowed into Hades
and you were not there,
I would not wish to stay.
Here, in my little burrow
I will remain—
a rock, an island—
with my books
and parchments
for company,
and will wait,
a certain memory of you
keeping me warm,
as your shoulder
was always cold.
Yes. So cold. Always cold.
Someday, perhaps
when we are old and gray,
and all your lovers,
epidermis-scratching aestheticians,
have gone the way of the Disciples of Launcelot
and no one remains, no one
to tell you you are still beautiful,
you may think of me, appreciative,
pleased to have been graced to behold,
even if never to have and to hold;
feel free to think of me;
please remember me,
and call on me.
And I will bring you flowers
(like those you wore—lilacs—
at a wedding, in your hair)
on that day, when you call,
and a navy blue, daisy painted sun dress,
when old man winter goes,
at last, at long last, away.
For as long as I can remember
there has been snow,
and every morning when I awake
and my feet hit the floor
I run to the window
and look to see
if at last the sun has come,
to see if the spring has at last arrived
and will bring you to me.
If only the sun would shine
and sprinkle the earth with sunlight
the way the snow is always around,
yes sunlight like the snow but
with some rain mixed in
like a cup of hot tea
with just the right amount of sugar and cream,
melting all the forgetful snow
and making flowers bloom at last.
Then spring will come
and bring you.
But slowly the truth settles in
like the frost sticking to everything,
and I see all too well, and know,
that it is really going to happen:
I shall not out-live the winter—
already the silver chords multiply,
and the oil for the lamps runs low—
and the sun will never melt the snow;
this is life forever more,
and I shall look upon you,
gaze into your eyes,
stroke your hair—
never.
No matter,
no longer:
for I am a rock
now; and an island.
to see if the weather had changed,
and if I might see you,
talk to you,
walk with you
like we did once
so very long ago,
the last time Spring was here.
And I thought of the last time
I saw you, at the airport
(you always fly away)
and our eyes met briefly;
I think I thought I saw you
seeing me somehow different
from what you thought I was,
(and I did not want to think
that it was just my imagination
running away again,
like it always did;
but it probably was),
and I sent you a message,
hesitantly, in a bottle, filling it
with a bit of my heart;
but I guess you never received it,
or did not care to.
Perhaps I should have filled it all?
I would have warmed you once;
but I could not reach you
in that place you live.
And you could not
or (more likely) would not
reach for me. Ever.
Humorous to think,
even to hope, I know;
but even Bête
may dream of Belle.
I cannot go to you, still;
And you I’m sure never
will come to me, I know.
The distance—
which you do so love to keep—
is too great for you.
(I would build a bridge,
but you would only giggle.)
When I exited my burrow
and smelled the scent
of Estee Lauder in the air,
and heard the singing birds,
I thought—
I would have sworn—
that spring had returned at last;
but you were nowhere to be found,
or even wanting to be
(so accustomed to being lost
are you now, that you run,
I know, from those who would seek you out).
That sliver of spring,
And its bitter sweet:
another of your brief strolls,
those state visits,
gracing your truly blessed subjects.
And six more weeks
(only six) of winter
would be good news
just now; for it is good to know
when misery will end
and bleeding cease.
But winter has come,
and means to stay
(winter, always
winter, never
Christmas, eternally
snow, and no skiing);
and I curse the god
who will not bring
you--and the spring--to me,
the god who brought you
so agonizingly, tempting,
within my reach
but never, no never
within my grasp
(such is his adulterated
sense of humor).
Twisted joke.
Friends stop by and say—
undaunted by my perennial refusals—
‘Come, go with us; yes,
let’s go someplace, all of us,
and do something, somewhere.’
But there is no place for me,
no place I could wish to be
if you are not. So pathetic.
If I burrowed into the highest heaven,
were offered a seat on the right hand,
and you were not there,
I would make haste to leave
and return here to my hole;
if I burrowed into Hades
and you were not there,
I would not wish to stay.
Here, in my little burrow
I will remain—
a rock, an island—
with my books
and parchments
for company,
and will wait,
a certain memory of you
keeping me warm,
as your shoulder
was always cold.
Yes. So cold. Always cold.
Someday, perhaps
when we are old and gray,
and all your lovers,
epidermis-scratching aestheticians,
have gone the way of the Disciples of Launcelot
and no one remains, no one
to tell you you are still beautiful,
you may think of me, appreciative,
pleased to have been graced to behold,
even if never to have and to hold;
feel free to think of me;
please remember me,
and call on me.
And I will bring you flowers
(like those you wore—lilacs—
at a wedding, in your hair)
on that day, when you call,
and a navy blue, daisy painted sun dress,
when old man winter goes,
at last, at long last, away.
For as long as I can remember
there has been snow,
and every morning when I awake
and my feet hit the floor
I run to the window
and look to see
if at last the sun has come,
to see if the spring has at last arrived
and will bring you to me.
If only the sun would shine
and sprinkle the earth with sunlight
the way the snow is always around,
yes sunlight like the snow but
with some rain mixed in
like a cup of hot tea
with just the right amount of sugar and cream,
melting all the forgetful snow
and making flowers bloom at last.
Then spring will come
and bring you.
But slowly the truth settles in
like the frost sticking to everything,
and I see all too well, and know,
that it is really going to happen:
I shall not out-live the winter—
already the silver chords multiply,
and the oil for the lamps runs low—
and the sun will never melt the snow;
this is life forever more,
and I shall look upon you,
gaze into your eyes,
stroke your hair—
never.
No matter,
no longer:
for I am a rock
now; and an island.
Labels:
Poetry
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About Me
- James Frank Solís
- Former soldier (USA). Graduate-level educated. Married 26 years. Texas ex-patriate. Ruling elder in the Presbyterian Church in America.
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