dailynewsnblog
You wouldn’t have approved.
I wasn’t going to take that trail
but then I thought
well, possibly
but probably not
and then I thought maybe and
then I was there and
I went ahead.
It would be OK if I was with someone
or if people were nearby
but I was alone
on the small, ancient island
crossed by dodgy trails.
*
Balanced astride the rocks,
I leaned away from the precipice,
put my camera down to free my hand
and sprawled like an awkward crab.
Legs trembling, I pushed across
the void and held my ground.
Breath smooth now
and body at ease,
I followed a brushy path
across the island’s hump
and through a sliver of forest.
Finally I clambered down
to a rocky headland
that cleaves the current in two.
It was time to rest.
On a rock just above the swoosh of water
I sat spellbound by a myriad
of spinning whirlpools,
their gurgles and murmurs sweet to my ears.
The water knew where it was going
or didn’t know. It doesn’t matter.
What matters is
there was no one to tell
about it when I got home.
You didn’t cry, “Lynnie!!”
when I walked in the door.
Instead, I unlocked the door
to an empty house.
*
I love my quiet house. I’m the only one who
messes it up. When I clean it
I know only I will make it dirty.
How’s that for being in control?
I bought a mid-century modern chair
upholstered in cream-colored boucle.
Very elegant. You wouldn’t like it.
A small green canister sat by the door
that day I went to the island.
Your soil.
I hugged it after I got home,
said your name. Joey.
It smelled faintly sour and felt silky smooth
like your skin.
Now your skin is there
in the smooth green canister
in the quiet house with
the elegant, cream-colored chair.
*
I love the way you worried about me
and when you were sick, I worried about you.
But that was different, wasn’t it? You were falling
down a precipice that was going to swallow you up.
What gets me most is the damned unfairness.
You so wanted to live here
on this beautiful, difficult planet.
You strained against the inevitable,
the fatal diagnosis,
the iffiest trail
that you had to follow
all the way
to the end.
*
*
On the highway home,
cradled in a whirring bubble,
tires float over asphalt,
tears
moisten my cheeks.
***
Note: I wrote this months ago and set it aside, then I returned to it a few weeks ago. It feels like now’s the time to send it out and make room for other creations. I think of Joe often, especially lately, since it was around this time last year that he died. But I don’t dwell on grief, not at all. I’ve been taking walks. I don’t lack for wondrous things.
Soon I’ll post more photographs from local walks.
***
