Sunday, November 29, 2015
I don’t know how to do it -
I want to write a poem about her;
trying to break through.
I can’t let it come out just like that -
you put words together to say what you feel,
and an imperfection leads to
I can’t resist…
This day is your and my day,
so I take you by the hand,
and we walk in the park.
We look for words
we set tones
we look for tensions
we set clues…
There is a lot ahead –
kiss on the wharf,
It seems simpler to let us
play it by ear.
Your urgent eyes seek wonder:
it’s still August,
yet the leaves’ edges have turned amber;
the taxi driver makes a mistake,
but we escape an accident.
We both are surprised at how we haven’t seen
the sweet olive along the quay for months.
Holding my hand tight,
you wait until I kiss you,
then you tell me
I am the best thing
that has ever happened to you.
The bus is delayed,
and we run late for the museum -
we sit in the garden,
where people talk about the rescheduled rain,
the vagaries of late summer
and the treacherous autumn.
I wonder, too –
When will the wonder arrive?
We try –
on the lawn I’m kissing your forehead,
you point to the vessel skyline and spread
your arms, so I get inside your embrace,
I prepare to say something most serious…
But wind gets high,
and we run into a bookshop.
The day rolls on -
faces, croissant, matinee, crossings,
crowds, underground, kiosks,
coffee, park bench, waterfront,
lolling skiffs, love stories, clouding,
seafood restaurant, ride in taxi, kiss beneath trees …
There seems to be no end,
and we seem to have lost the track to the beginning.
But the day closes in,
and I will have to bring my writing
to an end -
I’m not sure
how I will ever be able to tell her
that I love her.
This poem was published in Lost Tower Publications in 2013