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
Read 331 times
Written on 2018-12-02 at 04:51
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email