Rachel

In between two named towns,

near a county line,

people of the Kansas Area Watershed gathered.

The night was darker than my usual dark

and the glory of the stars exceeded that of mine.

I had learned that roughly half the length of my lifetime

before the year of my birth,

a man named Hubble had seen for the first time

discernible galaxies beyond our own.

I stepped up to a fire,

the light surely not extending far,

faces I mostly did not know

glowing in reflected flickering orange.

As chance would have it,

I sought a spot out of the smoke

in a still and occasionally interrupted quiet.

A woman held out her hand;

I’m almost sure I would not recognize

her on the street tomorrow,

the shadows were stronger than the light,

but her voice was most beautiful.

To be precise, it was warm and welcoming

and we exchanged names.

Her family name quickly blurred in my memory,

our gazes were mostly drawn by the fire.

I took her hand for a moment

and let it go.

We talked easily of people and places

we both knew and cared about in time.

That is, she talked of people in places

I knew of,

and I talked of similar people in places

she might have recognized.

But none of us were strangers to what

we cared about

though our words were specific and particular

to what each of us knew.

If I meet her ever again,

I imagine I will recognize her

by firelight and her voice.

I will look for her,

somewhere,

in the Milky Way.

Riding the sun

The south wind blows across the Kaw

and bounces up off the limestone levee,

an invisible ridge rising up toward the blue sky

and then towards the stars further above, unseen.

Air rises, it is easy to say,

and yet flight seems almost a miracle.

The vulture swoops down, cutting through

the clear sky, coming to rest

on the sandbar.

Two there, they stand, looking out

over the water rippling ever downstream,

and then, with a leap, one dives up

into the south wind, scooping and pulling buckets of air.

And then farther down the river,

effortlessly again, he rises up

on the weight of air.

And on the crest, the vulture

surfs the wave, a feather turns

slightly, no more, the great wings turn

circles on the south wind.

Effortlessly it all appears, but the effort

is mostly unseen. Generations

of vultures have practiced that feather

turn, and before that, fiber and bone

surfed evolving DNA.

And the south wind does not blow

out of no where, an immense fire

burns.

Where

It will have to do.

If I tell you that the answer lies within what I can no longer remember,

it will just have to do.

Two roads diverged, as Mr Frost said - so, well and good.

He so succinctly described his own experience,

but which road I have then taken is not at all clear to me.

You know who I am.

I have been by your side

for a long time,

yet I remain something of a mystery

to you – and to me.

I must not be far from here,

the one I used to be,

and – or perhaps –

far from the one I might be in the morning.

All is not lost,

only me. And then only

parts of me, and

not for nothing,

I should note that

I have likely only misplaced

an idea of myself.

The moon was nearly as new as it could be

a few nights foregone, the points

of the upward pointing cusps separated by the width

of my outstretched thumb.

Venus, gleaming a little higher

looked about to drop straight down

and splash into the perfect bowl.

The ancients would have been able to tell the time

from such small things, they knew where

in the universe they were by

extrapolating from the regular

movements and positions of these

celestial bodies.

Where - that they could say clearly – 

only guessing why,

well, in that, they were a lot like us.

Yesterday evening, the moon, not quite a quarter - 

still the time I was unsure of; it had climbed higher in a clear sky,

darkening, but still lighter than the one I remembered from

a few nights earlier.

I had been walking alone then;

this evening you were by my side.

And then a little later we slept, side by side,

for some time.

And then I was awake, unsure

of where.

Those two roads diverging,

and then two more at the end of those,

and, then at the end of those four:

so many more,

and on and on into an infinite regression.

Oh Mr. Frost, Mr. Einstein – can anyone

help me now?

I will close my eyes, and let the

spinning go spinning on. And I will imagine that in time,

in due time, in less time than you can pinch

between your thumb and your forefinger,

I will have forgotten, or rather

I will have awakened, and hopefully,

remembered enough,

and you will be there beside me.

I will not bother you with details of where

I’ve been. How could you possibly understand?

I don’t know myself.

I believe that Mr. Frost was quite aware

of the additional questions posed by his elegant asking of

this one or the other one.

He would likely have tossed aside,

like so much used bedding in a barn,

some of the ways people have made simple principles

out of his poem.

To be sure, I have taken one path or the other,

some have led to significant results. It would take a fool

not to see that  - and there are some fools around.

But looking back, some choices and results seem clear enough,

but by no means all. And now,

I have merely come again to the beginning of Mr. Frost’s poem,

two roads diverging. He hasn’t made it any easier,

but then, I’m don’t think that was his intention.

The sky is lighting. One ball has slipped below one horizon.

The other about to ascend. Maybe I will slip between the sheets

next to you and close my eyes.

In a few hours, I’m pretty sure I can find my way to the Saturday

Farmer’s Market. If only you

might hold my hand

when I cross the street.

Young woman walking

When she passed me on the bridge,

there were only a few inches

of pale lower calf

between the plain cotton skirt

and the tops of her well-worn work boots.

A lustrous red-brown they were.

Her faded blue skirt

folded up around her legs

and fluttered at the hem.

She was walking a half-step faster than I was.

I caught a glimpse

of cheek and dark glasses,

her rusty hair tied back,

and I followed her as she pulled away.

She carried a book in one hand.

I wondered if we might have had anything

to say to each other.

For I was nearly twice her age,

and a stranger.

Maybe if I see her again,

I’ll ask her where she got her boots.

***

When she passed me on the bridge, there were only a few inches of pale lower calf between the plain cotton skirt and the tops of her well-worn work boots. A lustrous red-brown they were. Her faded blue skirt folded up around her legs and fluttered at the hem. She was walking a half-step faster than I was. I caught a glimpse of cheek and dark glasses, her rusty hair tied back, and I followed her as she pulled away. She carried a book in one hand.

I wondered if we might have had anything to say to each other. For I was nearly twice her age, and a stranger. Maybe if I see her again, I’ll ask her where she got her boots.