If Words Could Be

If Words Could Be

Looking through glass at this

February sky threaded with cold

grey-blues, slightly softer lavenders

imagining if words could be

muted like this, this sunset

that so subtly whispers toward closure

and if they, like persistent noise,

could find a certain hush

under this, these crystalline drifts

you see, I don’t know what to with these

words that fell as simply as this

this snow that shifts everything I knew      

yet they seem a more solid something

something I can gather by hand and place

under this, these white layers

and let them be as something under snow,

a handful of auburn leaves there, suspended

matter under the seen surface 

maybe they will become as winter’s leaves

something of spring, folded into the structure

of globed beauty, the sun, the early daffodil

that spherical reminder of warmth, of words

of the heart’s topiary that does, with time,

as this sunset, this snow, those leaves

---

I was a few months pregnant and washing dishes at a house that isn't mine, on a holiday that often reminds me of how little close-family I have, and thinking about how my father used to hide the glass pickle in the Christmas tree, when someone quite casually said to me that the expectations are quite high for the baby in my belly and that I could only hope to have a child as wonderful and beautiful as the one my boyfriend already has.  Not wanting to be impolite, and quite frankly too struck by the comment in the first place, I softly nodded and smiled and carried on scrubbing, all the while wondering why someone thought that an appropriate thing to say to a pregnant woman who is not the mother of the referenced child.  Now perhaps if I were the mother I would have viewed the comment more as a strange compliment, but since I am not, I saw in it my boyfriend's past with the woman he impregnated, I saw a mother who created a child perhaps more wonderful and beautiful than one I could raise and develop, I saw competition and comparison.  And though I wanted to shrug them off and let them slip down the drain with all the particles from the pan, I found too much pith and stone beneath all the word layers.  And so these I've held onto throughout this winter, throughout this pregnancy.  But it seems, as a few months have passed, that I have allowed myself to bury them enough to give them space for transformation.  What will come of them, I do not know.  But as I look out at these winter landscapes and sunsets, muted or not, and as I feel my own body expanding and creating, I can only hope they are nothing more than matter for another wonderful and beautiful contribution to this world.  

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Under this Sky

Under this Sky

Under this sky

you’re so far away

and I can’t tell you how it reminds me of the sea

deep blue, and the moon, a wispy white half in the afternoon

I can’t tell you how

I cut white hydrangeas 

arranged them in a copper vase from Mexico

with the delicateness of mallow, so expansive, so pink, so soft

your daughter’s color,

and this, these petals  

made me think of her, you, there on the ocean

under a different sky, so far away from her, me, these flowers  

I can’t tell you how

there is a garden

of gifts on the wooden counter from a friend

who, perhaps, thought of me when he dug his hands into the dirt

how I want to see you

there on the metal stool

as I cut these vegetables, sing familiar things

as we share stories, expressions,  live in each other’s presence

I can’t tell you how

I have grown tired

how I’ve filled my head with dreams of yellow roses

and nasturtiums and eating oatmeal under the sun next to the sea

and how I love you  

how I’ll keep telling you

though you’re so far away and can’t hear these words

how I’m left to hold them without the feeling of holding you

I can’t tell you how

hydrangeas are silence

my silent company, how their beauty is what holds me

in a space we’ve shared together, now this, these white flowers

and how everything is

offering and opening

how I want you to see these hues in my brown eyes

share with me twice in this home’s slow and subtle awakenings

I can’t tell you how

late August air feels

how the coffee tastes richer in this weather, wearing this jacket

how it feels to have this warmth in the purple vibrancy of phlox

how it means "flame"

under the intensity

of time in the mind, passing without the proximity of love, how

there’s no languid hour in the act of missing, constant thinking of

I can’t tell you how

it feels to be here

alone and with thoughts of Brooklyn and risotto and a carousel

of going endlessly around and around in the company of love

and how I want

to have that here

that rhythmic pattern with you, here, under this temporal sky

to reminisce how blue it was, once, that day in late August

---

Absence, despite my endless missing, yields a slipping into dream spaces, a subconscious drawing forth of past vigor that held so much life and color.  It is strange to me that the act of missing can’t sustain me, keep me from fragments of past that are not so much idealized, but rather produce within me such a heightened sense that I can, again, find peace in the present.  These are little strings of things: eating oatmeal, a yellow rose, risotto, a carousel, all playing a love story that seems closer than my present one, perhaps because that is, though closer in time, just as distant as those memories.  It’s strange how it all becomes when two people can’t move through a daily life together, look at each other, feel each other, go through a day doing more than remembering each other.  The more time we spend apart, the more I have come to realize how significant it is to be in a present together, to share things in the physical presence of, under the same temporal sky.  Perhaps we look out and look up and see different things, think of different things, but being there with each other seems to distill time in a way that allows for love to speak so presently and peacefully, so that I do not need a story of oatmeal, a yellow rose, risotto, or a carousel, to remind me of what it once felt like to touch love. 

---

Space of Buoyancies

Space of Buoyancies 

I feel lonely

but I’m still in love with you

the fog is thick, blurring

blue and loosening

what I thought I knew of this,

distance

it’s different

now in this early dusk

where this familiar mountain has become

something so bending as sea / water

where you are

is not where I am

but tonight it feels as though I could swim to you along this thin

line between stone and sky

gentle space of buoyancies 

of a thousand fond memories

allows me to rest on a calm alone

to close the periphery

that this isn’t the sea, but instead a quick and enclosing storm

and I’m on a mountain

with love/ alone.

---

I went with love but without expectations.  I wanted to call to a familiar face that the wild flowers, those magenta ones that so overwhelmed me recently, were still in bloom and that they looked extraordinarily beautiful under the low, grey sky.  But there was no one there to hear in the way I wanted to be heard and so I felt alone, despite the company of the colors.  And what was a mist of grey below became a purple-blue-black sky above.  There was just enough space in the sky's openings to see the effects of the setting sun meeting a nearing storm.  It was there that I felt the paradox of memory, that alone-togetherness, that feeling that both pulls me from loneliness and hurls me deeper in.  That bittersweet power of reminder.  

---

Space from Presence

Space from Presence

It seems strange to feel an empty pulse

under a sky like this with these colors,

textures, these remnants of a day’s emotions

and yet I see you there in those clouds

that blue-orange-purple sky and so

it changes what I knew of something like this

in such absence, I haven’t determined yet

how to not feel the magnanimity of missing

how to go through a day without transposition

of everything I know of you as we walked through

quiet colors like this, feeling closeness, the cerebral

hush of holding hands and the whispered I love you

and what seems the still stream becomes the sea

and you’re there, now, and perhaps the sky is streaked

too, with words and the feeling of skin meeting

maybe you, too, feel absence in each shell

those yellow, purple, oranges and maybe

they become the sun we saw rising, setting

and it seems this, this love through memory

spans such a different space from presence

from the quietude offered by your touch

you see, when I’m with you I see the sky

without the weight of a thousand projections

but rather as sky, beautiful arc we walk within 

---

I've just returned from Nantucket, this isn't Nantucket (quite obviously, if one has been to Nantucket), but rather a return from.  Though the ocean drew a certain sentiment, it was this, this sky and this notch and this stream that became the pulse of my feeling.  While there, though all the perfect distractions from missing were in place-- a friendship, a beach, a brewery, a restaurant worth spending money at, I couldn't help but see my love, my friend, who just went out to sea, in everything.  This is, I suppose, how love goes.  It is in every breath, and is, I believe, quite beautiful.  And so, though I traveled alone, my memories of him, with him, were the surface of my night and day and ferry ride and drive home.  I carried missing along quite gracefully, I thought, present and holding, as I allowed the feeling to thread through my movements.  Yet, this silhouette of home, of being under a new yet familiar sky, altered my relationship to absence. The quiet threading was suspended by the weight of missing and navigating how to go through a space I've come to know with another.  It seems the unfamiliar, though spurring memory, did not have for me the heaviness of the roots of familiar, the endless roots of familiar, that hold a presence known and remembered, and thus also serve as a perpetual reminder of the suspension of another's physical and calming presence, one that enables the present.      

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Water Sounding Words

Water Sounding Words

I don't know you

on this day, now

under a sky so blue

you know this place isn’t always this

way; this pond sometimes has no lilies 

and so I know what it means to forget

what it means to remember and

how a single flower becomes you

                                                      how the water is

                                                       right there, how

shallow the light becomes near dusk still, the sun, its

                                                      reflection

                                                     across this calm

         water sounding words

invites the memory, not as awakening

             just as one loving

the invitation of light

the equivalency of projection

                           of how we saw pinks like this ten years ago

                           of how you placed your finger into that yellow

as though to pull yourself to a different horizon

so far beyond that exhaustion

                              to a place sensing as a water lily knowing

when to close, to open

---

It was a morning of pervasive pink.  The color urged me on.  The magenta ironweed on the mountainside held my attention under a rare blue sky.  And then it was this, this water lily, petals so strongly opened toward the sun, that drew me to my mother and a moment at the end of her life when she, once again, found respite in feeling the heart of a flower.  

---

Quiet Pulling

Quiet Pulling

that sun rising

from the overlook

the narrows in the distance

perhaps

two ridges enclosing as arms

forming

a space both vulnerable/safe

perhaps

it was that sunrise that became

            this sunset

here so far away

           days past, though

its orange-yellow glow sounded

with each movement

over snow at sunset

suspended moment where it may

be falling or rising below/above

the ridge, here

leaving, too, an orange-

though violet path 

its narrowness regarding

it held me in its view, let me

be there, again, safe in closing,

opening, thin strand I

thank you, it, for

letting me be there before its quiet

pulling

away

that’s always

coming.

---

The sky: orange-violet-golden, calling. The colors of the present drew me, quietly pulled me toward a distant memory of a sunrise thousands of miles away.  And so, in that arc of the darkening and merging ridges, it seemed for seconds that two worlds unfolded to hold me in a comforting suspension of time before quietly pulling away.      

---

Between the Two Skies

                                                                 today did not start this way

curled up under the weight of grey whose dimension echoes into hands

                                                                 the sound of underway, always

                                                                 the turning, the retracting, the

passing into and passing through the

passing away of the single point, the

elsewhere a pink sky, still dark ridge

ashes on fingers of what was, now is

                                                                  that feeling of the closeness

between the two skies, the tenses, the peonies no longer there but here

                                                                 some other sound, other color

                                                                 the after, absence of a syllable  

here a darkening, another rain

the dendrites of water moving

the seeing out and the seeing

through though not the feeling

---

It was sun and stillness at the base.  As I approached the crest of the exposed ridge I was met by accumulating grey-black clouds and sheets of distant rain, and a thru-hiker who, while looking back at the now ominous and blurred ridge, panted, "it's a bit scary up there."  Knowing that just as much exposed space rested before as it did after, I decided to carry forth, albeit running and scouting possible rock retreats from lightening.  It was alone and in the circulating clouds that I saw to the east this harmonious dissension in the sky.  And it was in that moment of dark/light that I recalled the dis/connection between trying to recall a feeling and in present feeling.       

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