ESTHESIS

April opens my windows
to this soft breeze through
new leaves. Oh! There we
are in a bright haze and nothing
has changed.

The flame you used
to burn that picture
onto the back of my eyes
when you danced in
puddles, mouth to the sky
catching fat rain-pearls, made
that day worth living.

Deeper in, your voice
from the crowd floated
to the time your fingers
counted beats on the frets of
your daddy’s old Gibson,
so “Yesterday” blew though
time all the way to now.

What is that magic you do
to make everything from
Socrates to Sartre,
Lascaux to O’Keefe blur
and fade in the distance?
Like the time when I read
D H Lawrence before we slept
through a storm-crashed
Oak blasted across the drive,
and we never knew, because
our micro-burst in the red room
was sufficient.

Today, drops slide down the glass
in a way that makes me wonder
if some of these beads could be
the same water that ran over
your blue skin when we left
the icy lake of our young trysts.

So here I am in a Rod Serling
loop of time watching a Kestrel
sail like silk from the wire where
he rests. He makes me think of
that gossamer blouse and how
you used to move beneath its
folds the way time does for me
when I drown again in another
sundry April breeze.

Reviews

[Clif]

The twilight zone was a good series about time and space. Kestrel is a kind of falcon. Nice prose.

[emmajoygreen]

Your final stanza somehow gathers what came before into a warm and finer than fine summation, Vol.
Is as if hanging onto the shadow of that bird and reaching the curve of a glorious rainbow,

' So here I am in a Rod Serling
loop of time watching a Kestrel
sail like silk from the wire where
he rests. He makes me think of
that gossamer blouse and how
you used to move beneath its
folds the way time does for me
when I drown again in another
sundry April breeze.'

[Arundass TP]

Interesting poem to read. Enjoyed.