Winter walking women

 

I was walking down Mass Street

when just ahead of me I saw

a woman in a plum nylon coat.

She was snugly wrapped

from her hood to her thighs.

Below she wore black tights and ankle

high black boots.

I never saw her face.

She turned into The Arizona Trading Company

and I turned into a potted plant.

I was walking down Mass Street

when just ahead of me I saw

a woman in a tan nylon coat.

She was snugly wrapped

from her hood to her thighs

Below she wore skinny jeans and calf

hide brown boots.

I never saw her face.

She turned into Goldmakers

and I turned into a potted plant.

I was walking down Mass Street

when just ahead of me I saw

a woman in an evergreen nylon coat.

She was snugly wrapped

from her hood to her thighs.

Below she wore faded jeans and

ordinary black shoes.

I never saw her face.

She turned into Wonder Fair

and I turned into a potted plant.

I was walking down Mass Street

when just ahead of me I saw

a woman in a navy nylon coat.

She was snugly wrapped

from her hood to her thighs

Below she wore patterned leggings and

Converse high tops.

I never saw her face.

She turned into Rudy’s

and I turned into a potted plant.

The Spanish English student

Prose - The poem without the line breaks

What if I wrote one line of words bending and looping across the page, until the line finally 

crossed a ‘t’?

Her eyes were darting across the room and then my eyes just happened to cross the line of her looking – and perhaps it was no more than that.

My eyes have become old and sky blue and hers were young dark pools of liquid earth. A million years have shaped both our lives and our words, neurons leaping over synaptic clefts in less than the blink of an eye. I only happened to glance over as she happened to glance across within the same moment of time and at a point in space - and then in a blink we also both looked so very quickly away. The crossing of eyesight lines had merely sparked some primordial recognition.

And then we caught each other’s eyes again. She smiled. I suppose that I must have smiled, too. But I could only see her face. Who knows just what she saw in mine?

It all happened in finitude. In time – in space - on a Sunday afternoon in my dining room. I happened to be, in that very hour, forty years her elder, if a day. And still it was as if we played tag or maybe hide and seek with our eyes.

What magic was it calling out the sight lines of our gazes across ten or twelve feet of thin air? I must have spread my fingers and peeked through them once or twice before I finished counting up to one hundred. And later, when I said a few words over her shoulder, she caught the corner of my eye as she turned her head.

And then we all were playing Jenga at the dining room table with solid maple blocks, building a tower to toppling. And again, I watched her eyes as she pulled on a block and then she looked into mine when the block came free. I must have laughed when I realized that she was looking at me looking at her looking at me.

It was really nothing more than that. I was old enough to be her very distant uncle. She had been born across a wide ocean. And only for a single afternoon, with our eyes playfully glancing, would our worlds come within a million miles of colliding.

It was not as if we were weaving the fabric of the universe, one warp and one weft – and then a million threads of some color. Let’s say that it was rose, or mauve or maybe a dusky pink. I recall that that was just about the color of the sweatshirt she was wearing.

And I remember a phone stuck into one back pocket of her jeans - but now that I think of it, it might have been another young woman. There were a dozen or so of us, together, sharing food. And talking back and forth in various accents of English. There was a cake with a little cardamom and bright colored sugar sprinkles. And then she and I just happened onto a million year old little game, one played with only our eyes.

And then the game was over, the sun lowering in the sky, warm for November. And then she walked away forever. She waved one hand out of courtesy. And perhaps for some of the feelings I had yet to recall, I must have raised my hand too.

And then with a look, one last look forever, she looked into my eyes. And then we both disappeared into each other’s memories. I have not quite forgotten the look of her eyes just yet. But I will.

Poem - Line breaks as punctuation

What if I wrote one line of words

bending and looping across the page,

until the line finally crossed a ‘t’?

Her eyes were darting across the room

and then my eyes just happened to cross the sight line of her looking –

and perhaps it was no more than that.

My eyes have become old and sky blue

and hers were young dark pools of liquid earth.

A million years have shaped both our lives

and our words,

neurons leaping over synaptic clefts

in less than the blink of an eye.

I only happened to glance over

as she happened to glance across

within the same moment of time

and at a point in space -

and then in a blink we also both looked

so very quickly away.

The crossing of eyesight lines

merely had sparked some primordial recognition.

And then we caught each other’s eyes again.

She smiled.

I suppose that I must have smiled, too.

But I could only see her face.

Who knows just what she saw in mine?

It all happened in finitude.

In time –

in space -

on a Sunday afternoon

in my dining room.

I happened to be, in that very hour,

forty years her elder,

if a day.

And still it was as if we played tag

or maybe hide and seek with our eyes.

What magic was it calling out the lines of our gazes

across ten or twelve feet of thin air?

I must have spread my fingers and peeked through them once or twice

before I finished counting up to one hundred.

And later, when I said a few words over her shoulder

and she caught the corner of my eye as she turned her head.

And then we all were playing Jenga

at the dining room table

with solid maple blocks,

building a tower to toppling.

And again, I watched her eyes as

she pulled on a block

and then she looked into mine when the block came free.

I must have laughed

when I realized that she was looking at me

looking at her looking at me.

It was really nothing more than that.

I was old enough to be her very distant uncle.

She had been born across a wide ocean.

And only for a single afternoon

with our eyes playfully glancing would

our worlds come within a million miles

of colliding.

It was not as if we were weaving the fabric of the universe,

one warp and one weft –

and then a million threads of some color.

Let’s say that it was rose, or mauve

or maybe a dusky pink.

I recall that that was just about the color of the sweatshirt she was wearing.

And I remember a phone stuck into one back pocket of her jeans -

but now that I think of it, it might have been another young woman.

There were a dozen or so of us, together, sharing food.

And talking back and forth in various accents of English.

There was a cake with a little cardamom

and bright colored sugar sprinkles.

And then she and I just happened onto a million year old little game,

one played with only our eyes.

And then the game was over,

the sun lowering in the sky,

warm for November.

And then she walked away forever.

She waved one hand out of courtesy.

And perhaps for some of the feelings I had yet to recall,

I must have raised my hand too.

And then with a look, one last look forever,

she looked into my eyes.

And then we both disappeared into each other’s memories.

I have not quite forgotten the look of her eyes just yet.

But I will.

Like candles

It wasn’t even close to my birthday.

Yet the tips of the bare branches on the treetops

were burning like candles.

Then, as the earth turned beneath my feet,

without even a single breath,

those flames were extinguished.

I walked on along the street

towards where the moon would be rising,

the air biting my nose,

the sounds of my footsteps in my ears.

The sky was so deep and so clear

as far out as my eyes could see.

I walked on into the night

towards where Orion the Hunter would be rising 

to take his lonely place in the sky,

turning as the earth turned

through the long, cold winter.

At dusk, not even a short hour ago,

I had watched a hawk

flying near the tops of the tree branches.

At least the hawk

only killed for survival.

And yet, as I walked,

tonight all was calm

and the moon was so bright

and I wondered as I watched

why all of this was still somehow not enough.

‘So this is Christmas,’ Lennon sang

ages and ages ago -

and again and again on my digital device.

But his words remained only a lyric:

War was not over.

I bowed my head.

And then, at last, I turned towards home.

I, at least, would be warm,

sitting down with my wife for my supper soon.

Comfort and not always joy.

And still tomorrow I will be glad to see the sun rising

and to be breathing in the wind,

watching the bare branches reaching ever upwards.

But in the darkness of the night

I asked the glittering stars up above so high,

Why do we humans extinguish

the beauty that we did not create?