Seasons.

Last Spring I planted a seed;

I dug a hole out in the garden, near the hyacinths

and tucked you in,

nice and tight,

waiting for you to greet me.

Outside was all this splendor and I knew you,

seedling,

would only make my world brighter --

to know my hands were Makers, Doers,

to have dirt beneath my finger nails,

in the creases of my palm.

I thought you would be grateful but

your bed was too warm, your new home too cozy,

and by mid-Summer I realized that you weren’t coming.

You stood me up

but I’m not angry.

I planted you too late; I expected you,

and I wish I hadn’t.

The hyacinths have overgrown now and I’m not sure where you lay anymore.

Hopefully your bed will keep you safe until I join you, one Winter.

Ritual

Every day we go through the motions:

We wake up -

I stay in bed a few extra minutes,

You make coffee but don’t drink it.

We eat, kiss goodbye, lock our door.

We use public transportation,

stuck between sticky strangers.

We sit at desks and watch the clock;

we inhale impatience and exhale procrastination.

We come home.

We break bread.

We make tea.

We watch the news.

We make wudu.

We make salah.

We make love.

We shower (together or separate - depending on the temperature).

You take off your shorts,

I put on pajamas.

We go about our days, separate but united, interacting with others along our path, but in the dusk, when we lay in bed together we stare into each others eyes, recount the hours, minutes, seconds without each other. I laugh at your stupid jokes. You smile and hold my hand. We merge our roads through kisses and bridges and love.

It’s in these tiny recesses of space I realize that my hope for life stems from you.

Our lives are not religion;

but through our rituals,

I come closer to understanding God.

Sober.

“Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be,” I think,

as you're passed out on the floor,

drunk and laughing - a smile here, a wink

there; pleading for a drink or two more.

I don’t know if you realized how

idiotic you looked - buckling knees and slurred

speech. I’m hoping that you understand now

why I had to leave that night. I heard

that Andy had to carry you all the way back

home, because you could barely stand.

He told me you tried to grope some girl in black

and that the bar’s got you banned --

but I didn’t really care about what he had to say;

I only asked to make sure you got home okay.

Sleepless Winter*

Winter nights bring quiet chaos -
Snowfall on a frozen lake,
Leafless trees shivering in the cold.

I reach to the left and find
An empty bedside,
dead skin cells and a cold lonely imprint of where

your frame

once

fit.

Time passes in Tokyo,
Milan,
Barcelona,
Beirut,
Tel Aviv.
The world ages and greys but you,
My love,
are ageless,
swallowed in youth -

Your curls are cherry blossoms,
Your eyes sprinkled with pollen.

My skin is snow white and yours
is kissed with rays of gold -
You are my exit,
My refuge from this
sleepless winter.

--

*Tentative title

For some reason this thing isn't letting me visually structure the poem the way I want. I don't know why. Hmm.

(3/3/2010) I decided to change the line "stuck in my mind's perpetual spring -" to "swallowed in youth -" thanks to the constructive criticism I received. Plus, I like sexual imagery!

What did Man say to the Hummingbird?

"Slow down, my child, your heart moves too quick for your mind.

Don't you know that your heart

can only take you

so far?"