false spring

 

your hands were warm,
as were your letters
against my cold touch

i did not know spring then -
nor the weight of long winter 

this i now know:
my heart leapt
at the sound of your voice,

that old memories rushed back
like gentle tides returning
to a forgotten shore,

that the air between us
still carried electricity
from long-ago words

who knows what might have been -
how a fragile bud,
a seed of a smile,
a light touch

might have opened slowly
into something larger
under the full glare
of sun, rain, and sky

my mind was timid then,
my resolve even more afraid.
when you are young,
naïve, and unsure of what might grow,
even hope can feel dangerous

so i let it pass -
that brief warmth,
that almost-season.

now i look back
on that time in my life
with fondness -

no regrets,
though a quiet garden
of what-ifs still lingers.

and if our paths cross again,
beyond a night of easy laughter
and borrowed friendship -

you know what?

the older me
is no longer afraid
to take that leap,
to startle the quiet air.

i will wait until then
for our spring to arrive -

not early,
not mistaken,

but true -

with wrinkles,
with louder laughter,
with songs
we are finally brave enough
to sing

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - False Spring.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for the visits and comments.  Have a good day!

Moontide

 

I thought him first a ferryman, but I was wrong.

He wore the night as one walks with a cane.  

Slipping on an ancient body, he was an old 

hand to assist you in your crossings.

Next, I thought of him a sentinel & maybe I

am right.   He watches the night closely as I count

time striking at midnight before the new year.   His

black suit scarcely moving in the wind.   His eyes

an orb of midnight oil, brooding as crows

Casting shadows in this street in middle

of the town square.  I first ran into him,

waving my passport, asking him where was Kipling

station.  He pointed it to me in the map & even

gave me tips to reach the airport.   I thanked him

as if he was a locksmith.   He brushed it off, saying

the city can be a puzzle

if you don't know north & south, east & west

in his grave watchman's voice.

That's me, confused as a lost cloud

With a ring of copper keys on my hand.

He said, a bunch of keys confused him.   He prefers

one fishing line & hook.

I was getting on my way when another man

approached him for help on directions.

He said that I am not a wand maker but I can show

you where to fish, where the water pulls, how to reel 

in a catch  

It now occured to me what he really was.

He is a tide maker.

He listens to the currents & shapes the tides.

He catches the moon and puts it

inside the street lamp.

And he holds the one silver key to close & open it

To whoever knocks at his door

and ask him 

Please, give me back my secrets.

Fictional character's voice inspired by the digital collage of Catrin Welz-Stein here.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics:  Exploring the Narrative Voice, with guest host, Ingrid. Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.