Arriving at the Pass

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Part 1              It was cold
as we left the house
that early evening; and I wondered
if either of us
would remember how we wore
the coldness like clothes,
or how it would come to wear us;              once warm shoulders
rubbing like two birds frozen
in the snow -- so this is coldness, I would find
myself thinking; a web of freezing
spun over everything;
and where the frost comes creeping
to draw the life from memories
caught in its net;

              but there had been no argument
between us except
the one we wouldn't have,
              worried if we dined on hurt,
we'd manage neither the regret
nor forgiveness as icing for dessert;
              and so like choosing
a simile over the metaphor, we chose to say
less like it meant more;              we put words on a hunger strike;
and fed on morsels of memory that night,
the seeds of which should
have borne better fruit;
but at least it fed the loneliness,
if not a love gone mute;

1.2              and we knew we'd arrived at the pass
where weeds begin to grow,
over violas that would once open
at first light -- even in the snow;
but now the vine lies torn
from its bed,
and the lavender is cut dead;              now only clematis grows
in wistfulness instead;
overshadowed by the willow weeping
at the water's edge;
with no scent of contentedness
in the uncut grass
left yellowed from neglect,
and ruffled by the air

              circling like an empty prayer,
layered in levels of breathing,
low, unanswered and freezing;
              and there we walked in mourning
for the unborn moments left dying;
their tiny hands of meaning
              clutching at all the flowers
we would never hold -- petals in infancy
giving in to the cold;              life in death lingers as a child
in an incubator;
while we as parents wait fearful of the truth
that we own neither
the soul nor the heart,
nor the thoughts in the mind;

              nor can we find
an adequate reason
why souls and bodies bind together
without question,
in an illusion of faith
where the body must first die
to reach some distant heaven;              and we wondered whether
there was a better route
to reach the other side;
or whether the time we walk
is simply a measurement the fates devise;
of who leaves and who arrives;
with the distance in between one
that no one can surmise;

1.3              for whether the journey
is quick or long, or whether it's been good
in its natural run -- love promises
              no timetable of its sum;
it guides our way
with only the wildfire of stars and sun;
              and though love needs you,
it won't tell you
how to clean the slate and go on;              or help protect
against separation that breaks
bodies into two, igniting the brain
to burn you in a field of harm,
on a cross no god can carry
or save you from;

              nor does love help understand
how the motions of living
become a tour of duty;
where once peaceful silence
now patrols borders to soldier you on;
handcuffed thoughts held to ransom
even when joined as one,              or arrested in a fight,
empathy goes into hiding;
unable or unwilling to lessen the pain
that reminds of loss, instead of gain,
or the promise made not to war --
which we'd kept that cold night,
as though wished upon a star
shot down in final flight.

Published 26 April, 2011

Part 2 >>

Freedom Road >>