So now a slow
sun twists
the last strands
of haze & the air
clears. Still,
I find I must
trust your voice,
calling me,
as those geese
might give themselves
to a blue fit of sky -
*
Again, rain. In bright air,
wet fields would change the sky,
reflected. Still, the sun
stays hidden. Its hold on
this red house, uncertain.
So this weather can be
no measure of the slow
swing of my own seasons.
*
Aloft in a reach of sky
a waver of geese is
caught by sunlight -
look at those colors!
Deep as wildfire, yes,
the brown & grey & white
blaze against blue -
the blue of your eyes.
And you, woman, - listen -
grow even more lovely.
Poignant, and tasting slightly bittersweet.
Posted by: Ivy | September 20, 2004 at 10:34 AM
Thanks, Ivy. Yes, a little bittersweet.
Posted by: Tom Montag | September 20, 2004 at 10:41 AM
I like the geese giving themselves to a blue fit of sky - i have no idea what it means, but I like it! "A waver of geese" sounds right, too. A strong sense of the tentative nature of things (of love)...
Posted by: dave | September 20, 2004 at 11:24 AM
Dave--Thanks. "Blue fit of sky...." "Waver of geese...." Yeah, everything is tentative, ainna? The great wheel turns, keeps turning. "This too shall pass," as we say.
Posted by: Tom Montag | September 21, 2004 at 06:40 AM