Sometimes it is easy to love, and sometimes it is not so easy. I guess, though, it’s those hard times that make us appreciate more those moments when it is so beautifully simple. I don’t know too much. I’m only twenty-five. But I’m a quick learner. And sometimes the best thing for me to do is to remember how lovely the sky looks on an early summer morning, and how once a long time ago I walked with my mother over a bridge that was all the way covered in flowers, and how just thinking about that still warms my soul. Fridays are as good a day as any for remembering.
In a wide, wide row…
one by one, and on top of one another
the trees are aging, are feeling the cool in their bark
crimson hued, wet from the ceaseless rain.
And we…we are waiting.
One beside the other,
our legs hanging, dangling
ankles crossed even our toes crossed
we are waiting.
Children bred to feel a patience against
the chill we sense in our palms
the aching taughtness of our bones
our limbs, turning against us,
we are waiting.
There is a saying I heard once
that I cannot remember, but it brings to mind
that field behind the forest
filled up with corn, swaying in the autumn breeze
as my heels hit the padded ground
they turn and gaze at me,
straighter, stronger than I
for they are not afraid to die.
Not afraid. While we cannot help ourselves
but to wonder…will we always be waiting?
Waiting till the last of it,
we cannot leave.
It is in our blood. In our age old
running just beneath our blue tinged skin
Our breath eased in and out by the salt
of the near by sea,
we couldn’t turn our back for the fear
Of mountains too high, roads too square,
deserts too dry…Oh, New England.
Could we hate you, or love you more deeply?
More ceaselessly, our pride in your antiquated beauty
in the joy of a snow covered cobbled road.
It would be foolish to leave.
It would be treason to leave,
Even for the sun we are waiting for, yes, even for that.