Poetry

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The sun slides home some Sunday,
the citronella smoking low -
quiet conversations cooling under an old
air conditioner, sputtering like a dying man.

Jack is in my lap and warm, like honey, seeping
into my hungry places.

He is trying to stuff his flannel blanket
into his mouth, so I take the other end
into mine and try to chew out the miracle
that the years have exhausted –

to taste again the smoke in my wine, the meat
of the north wind and sweet rain water –

to feel again the love of my woman’s smile, the heat
of her simple kiss –

see the spirits that shadow all things
and the things themselves as they are in themselves –

and smell the hearty fare of the banquet of God,
like the heaviness of honeysuckle –

hear the symphony of the stars
and the whispers between the waves.

But all too soon the night
(that mother of simple things)
has soothed my little man to sleep.

How quickly he (and we), once so deliciously
alive, now slip into our slit-eyed stupors.

But this night is rising in me. Silence
is whispering her secrets to me and I

am just beginning to wake.

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