Before the breeze arrived from the Azores
Before the blooms of Spring broke through the soil
She left. The sun too late to warm her bones,
Under Winter’s sullen canopy,
She inked her life in squared parentheses.
The weight of spiky granite in her head,
She stumbled often, grazing tenderness
From skin that wouldn’t shed no matter how
She longed to cast it into bygone years
Before the breeze arrived from the Azores.
And tears, empathic with the Holocaust.
And unjust faith in failed humanity.
Exquisitely, her faltered self-belief
Denied that academic mountain-top
Before the blooms of Spring broke through the soil.
Before the party and the burgeoning,
Before the Rosie age yet to arrive,
She left no packing done, no notice given
Unwilling, in her proper state of mind,
She left. The sun too late to warm her bones
We wed two dozen years ago plus one
Enjoying every aspect of our love
And working for tomorrows yet unseen
And giving, giving of our very essence
We’ve pushed the trolley up the lumpy hill
When wild winds lashed the rain into our face
And icy breezes chilled us to the marrow
And arrows punched their way into our dreams
We hunkered, souls engaged and interlinked
Shared each other’s strength and counsel wise
Greeting days with pleasant resolution
Till golden suns would wander into view
Twenty-five full hours in each fat day
Each silvered night sits mirrored by the stars
As planets track their influence through clouds
And moon and sun keep faith in tides once ours
A sun performs its light-show far up there,
a million light years from the planet Earth.
A million lovers turn their heads aloft,
wondering at a million years ago
when that enormous, tiny ball of flame
was roasting planets as they see it now.
And maybe in another million years
a message from the beings on a world
revolving round NGC603
will reach our humble, blue-lit, fading home
when all our foolish ways have come to grief
and Earth is but an empty might-have-been.
They say tomorrow comes the storm.
Today – – – it’s warm.
It’s April and the wind is cool
but, sitting in the sun, I fool
the weatherman and nature’s breeze
by drinking tea and eating cheese-
on-toast and staying in the shelter
where my sun-drenched back may swelter.
April couldn’t be much better
Tomorrow – – – it’s wetter.
It felt as if the middle of the year
Had come to spread its syrup sun about
The sorry fortunes of the winter days
Dissipated with the gathering warm
But callous Nature played us like some fools
Captured in an April Foolish trick
And brought us back to feeling sorely cold
With prospects of an April spiked with snow.