Thursday, February 27, 2014

The sandbar




If you walk out on the sandbar below Bowersock North,
you will probably see little more than sand and rocks -
driftwood and an occasional dirty plastic bottle.
Perhaps you will see more.
But there is really not much more to see
than sand and rocks,
some driftwood
and maybe some herons or gulls –
perhaps more.
I have been going out on the sandbar
more times than I can count now
and this is just about it.
There is the water, of course,
sometimes sunlight sparkling off ripples,
and sometimes, I suppose,
you might see more,
but mostly on the sandbar
there is sand and rocks -
driftwood and some miscellaneous junk.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Blood draw





I waited at the red light,
a white fold of gauze
taped to my tan arm.
A man with a red beard
crossed in the walk
and sticking out of his black backpack
was one long-stemmed red rose.
Now I am not a religious man
and colors and coincidences
are only that for me,
but I prayed my blood
was red enough
for another year –
at least.
I think I can wait
a minute
for the colors to change.
It will only seem like years;
and years
will seem like minutes.
And then the man with the red rose,
turned and walked west
and I drove on to the east.
Just a little stick,
she had said.
We had laughed a little about people
preferring one arm or the other.
Nothing to it,
I thought.
Walking out the door,
I told her I would
forget how she had stuck me in another minute.
And then I would forget her.
And then the man with the red beard.
And then my prayer
pulsing through
my veins.
And a long-stemmed red rose.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Not a sound





I can tell you she was dressed all in black,
her leather boots, her tucked-in pants, her long, quilted nylon parka,
but I have no words to describe the sound of her voice.
My feet crunched behind her in the hard frozen snow.
She suddenly turned,
her rosy face flashed from out of her fur-lined hood.
And then, returning, she continued on.
In the ten steps of my quicker pace, I had caught up with her
and offered her something about not sneaking up on her.
She told me in warm tones she hadn’t heard me through her hood
but had only sensed my presence as I approached.
For a few short steps more as we reached the end of the bridge
I would have listened to her explain the whiteness of the snow
or the grayness of the sky or the coldness of the cold.
But instead she merely wished me well as we turned on to our separate ways,
the sound of her voice diminishing in my mind with the crunch of every step,
not even an after-tone remaining in my inner ear.