A letter
before it starts to wander.
Two lips pressed in silence.
Ears bending to brain’s curious child
holding one finger up
to test for wind.
I have lost the bridge to you.
The landslide brings all trees
to their knees
opens in every which way
the body
yet somehow through many
great storms
you are the tree
that survives.
Your hair grew long
while you waited.
The lower portion of your face
hides behind a mask.
My fingers play with a strand,
there is music.
Surprisingly
the nursing home allows wolves.
I am kept outside on the patio.
Green eyes slowly turn toward the door.
Before we know it
two wolves sit beside each other.
I wonder have you forgotten me?
You remember, the light comes on.
Your face is a map my fingers like to trace.
Even this morning in the northlands
that warmth stays.
I carve out my heart between us.
I offer it to you but you are no longer hungry.
We both look at a shrouded sky
wishing for sun.
The fallen leaf originates a kind of trust
before it dies.
Enough of them
produces a body of light.
I lean towards you
willing my warmth
to pink you up.
We light candles
between us.
A song bird flies overhead.
You point to the red roof of the house
two blocks away. So we talk about it;
as if we have always known that place,
as if we know the man walking
to the intersection,
as if it is a woman you know
who is coming to see you.
We become friends
and lovers
again.
You remember and smile
and touch the card with fondness.
Laughter
is a party inside us.
I forget I have to leave again,
and hope you will forgive me.
I promise to come visit the next day
and the next day and wonder if you will
remember what that means.
That I will need to leave you
and a part of me wants you to forget.
But then of course
the soul knows
and understands
and remembers
and always always loves.
One day a northern wolf heard the southern wolf's song.
So many stories later they stand here.
Two wolves testing the air.
Contently between time.
Presence is the whole of it.
They do not need to eat
or be warm.
They read the weather together.
There are no promises
between two souls.
Hunger and not hunger is the love between them.
She turns to go.
He begins to crumple a little inside.
Glaciers melt blue
on the fringes.
He turns and walks through the doorway.
As if one light turns off
and another on.
The northern wolf feels snow coming.
It runs with wind in its fur,
tirelessly easing into a lope,
face pointing towards home.
The southern wolf lies down
easing back into the place that holds him.
The poetry and flute of her words
warm and escaping.
~~~
for J.
12.4.2021
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