Linger. Our snow will melt, slick roads will dull like doormats. Our sun will return bright and vigorous as ever. Our seasonal respite welcomes our desire to embrace for days or weeks; we are time’s distractions, reliable harbingers of spring.
Listening to Suite Judy Blue Eyes, thinking of her, her Judy-like brown eyes, her questions that claim my feelings as if images stuck in her mirror. My shell of truth has been pierced by her stare, pressed into lyrics only she will record.
Deep within resides a poem I regard as an unseen visitor; it’s presence clings to mystery, stirs emotions bound to anticipation. Have you noticed me, a searcher, dazed, yet trolling for stanzas much too evasive to catch?
I’d found them, quilts from generations ago, old histories, handmade scrolls, stitched from scraps or old clothes, spare blankets, sewn-in memories to wrap both black and white babies when winters froze before our Civil War.
Transferred, that concept, beauty, to a fifty-yard pass, its ark a rainbow might envy, its sure-handed catch a combination of concentration as perfect as your stare from a crowded room when I wonder if its reception is mine to snare.
She didn’t know the Doobie Brothers’ anthem, Long Train Runnin’. Its gut-punching question, Without love, where would you be now? captures the reality of our love, as if caring were a necklace she dons on occasion. I grit my teeth as I hear the song’s refrain.
Distance, measured in heart beats rather than miles, loses significance when, pressed against my chest, my cell messages you, you in the dark where your bed saves my space after your sleep comes. My heart seems content, its brief broadcast complete.
I will not harm you, will not, won’t knock on your door to unravel your well-woven cocoon, its layers so tightly wrapped I know they’re not mine to unwind, only yours for undoing reluctantly until you trust my love, then welcome my caring, embrace our connection.
Feint, then dodge; avoid obstacles and roadblocks. Master hairpin turns. This track, where racers race, has its own etiquette; its harsh demands attracts those who test skill and survival lap after lap at speeds that make defying death more visible, its vital glimpse much nearer.
Backing away, I study you as if a pirate his spoils, his largesse off a lumbering ship foolish for transporting such desirable cargo, a model for a masthead. Aloof, you stare, unafraid as a regal Eurybia set to cast a spell, alter constellations, capture my heart in a whirlpool.
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