the night is as it was


what is night but dreams going back to the

beginning   the primal darkness   sheets

and blankets   imitations of something

warmer and even darker   and terrors which

sometimes come   but none so dark as day

light when dreams become real   nothing is

so terrifying as that which is real   more

frightening then wolves howling in the

carpathian moonlight   step outside into this

slim cresent-light night   it is not so dark after

all   there are stars   frost on the grass   white

in daylight   gray in moonlight   but something

is different   sound is different   day sound

become unidentifiable at night   and therein

lies the fear   but think back   there were

sounds back then   back in the primal dark

ness   and were they terrifying   were they

threatening   this night is safe if unfamiliar   

though not so unfamiliar as you may think




The air is finally clear. Colin walks in the moonlight, down rows of dormant vines, leaves no longer ashen, cleansed by the rain. This feels like a second chance, but it will never be the same, just as what happened ten years ago left him with the same certainty. Things happen, and what was, isn't, at least isn't the same. No one is uneffected by the fire, whether they suffered directly or indirectly. Ten years ago he and Georgeann suffered alone, no consoling friends, certainly no consoling parents, just the opposite, and he hates to think of it. Ten years. The ache and longing banked, but not gone. He sighs and walks on. 


I see him from my window, walking. I am imagining, as I do, everything, every thought. Does he remember it has been a decade? Outside, my friend is walking. Inside, safe in the sheets and blanket is my love. I am somewhere in between, neither here nor there. I may stand at this window, but I am somewhere else, in the void I remember from childhood nightmares—waking terrified, gasping for breath, sobbing, crawling out of a black dimensionless void. I am slipping back and forth, now, between this world and that. 


I don't know, and cannot imagine, what Marketa thinks or dreams. I have not, and cannot, anticipate the next words from her mouth. I never know. Why I should have faith in her, when I have faith in nothing else, I don't understand. Perhaps is it closer to hope. I hope that when she wakes the words out of her mouth will not be the final words. I can't be sure. I don't do well with uncertainty.


I get dressed. Though I know Colin likes his own company best, I walk down the hill to join him. We have shared too much for too long to question each other's company. I take his hand. Or, we take each other's hand. This is love, of a sort. I ask him if he was thinking about Georgeann. He wasn't. He was thinking of next year's yield. Will vintage 2019 be bitter, or will the gray leaves and cindered soil produce something unpredicatably fine, a vintage that will be remembered for its uniqueness? 


We walk hand in hand in the moonlight, friends who should be lovers, by a twist of fate, or biochemistry, are not. 




slipping into to bed as the rose colored

dawn lightens the eastern sky   i snuggle

into marketa   none too gently   savoring

her warmth   burrow into that warmth

smiling that inner-smile i carry for her

and only her   she turns to me   smiles

the  ducheene smile   corners of her eyes 

wrinkling just a bit   just enough   i never

know   i lack faith   maybe with time i will

find certainty   for now   this is enough   i 

let go of the night and thoughts of the void

of vague primal terrifying memories

embrace the here and now   that which is

at hand   hands that are now roving

and whatever else this day may bring   and

whatever unsettling thoughts return to

night   i will have this   it   too   is primal




Marketa and I help Yenny with breakfast. Some things never seem to change. At the same time the three of us share companionable comfort and conversation, while Colin and his grandfather sit in mute companionable silence. We bring in plates of eggs and bacon, pancakes with syrup, cups of coffee. Colin would prefer yogurt and strawberries, but this Saturday has the feel of a holiday, why not greet it heartily? 


People are beginning to return to the area, locals to assay the damage and city folks to see what's left of the wine country and to sample wares. The winery is open for business, or will be at ten o'clock. This is the first day that even resembles normalcy in a month. Has it been a month of fires? Not even that. 


This day begins.





Poetry by one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 331 times
Written on 2018-12-02 at 04:51

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