Dreary Day

Who would have thought?

I overlooked what you were saying to me.

I walked as I often do,

pausing to look, to capture colors and shapes.

And then, much later, I overhear

what the passing wind 

in the colored leaves

is repeating to no one,

and although I am walking alone,

you are near.

And after a long mile,

the river was as gray as it ever could be,

the reflected sky dull and dreary.

I stopped at the Gaslight for a cold beer

and for warmth.

And this is what I wrote:

Robert Frost wrote that some say the world 

will end in fire

some say in ice,

But who would have thought it would end like this? 

Dreary skies, brilliant colors,

remnants only and letting go. 

I remembered you every step of the way,

soggy leaves underfoot and reflected tail lights.

Nothing to look forward to

but trackless white.

Might we still make angels together,

bury our faces in ice and pray for fire?

Might love tilt toward a lengthening day 

again?

I sipped again and paused to listen

to faces as they spoke,

such colors and shapes I could not hope

to capture,

brilliant remnants of other lives.

And this is what I wrote:

Robert Frost wrote that some say the world 

will end in fire

some say in ice,

But who would have thought it would end like this?

Each step closer to the last,

the sky dreary, pavement wet,

brilliant color, here and there,

but the remnants only of life

and falling fast.

I thought of you,

how could I not,

but it was drizzle spitting on my cheeks.

Wrapped deep in cloud,

the sun never looked, 

never thought to return.

Why should it?

I had squandered my youth,

my middle age, and now I am old.

It’s not so very bitter,

but now I look forward

to trackless white.

But if you would come with me,

make angels together,

bury our faces in ice

and pray for fire,

perhaps our love would rise

again.

I zippered up and recrossed the bridge,

dusk slowly settling in.

A meter maid whose face I knew

reminded me that I would get wet.

Drizzle, light,

but not too far to home,

the night nearly arrived.

I toweled my head

and went into the kitchen to cut

an onion for the frying pan.

But it’s all so obvious, words and pictures,

hardly worth mentioning.

But there were moments

of joy in the dying 

and lingering moments,

and my wife and I had our supper

and I had my heart and soul.

And the Thai braised chicken needed

a little more chili pepper.

All photos but the last taken one dreary day in November. The writing, mostly of a piece. Words and pictures are really separate strands but they are from the same walk.
Click on a photo for a larger-sized slide show.