Bridge

I crossed the bridge between midnight and dawn
and thought I heard you: whispers without a voice.
The breeze I knew to be the breath from your sigh            
filled my head with mingling fragrances                          
of night-blooming jasmine and orange blossom;
as I drew the curtain I knew the cerulean sky
was as deep as your eyes, although I have never seen them. 

 

I no longer think of you except when it's going to rain,
and sulfurs rise from the ground, binding me more tightly
to you and earth and sky—a sky laden with sadness.           
Perhaps you sit on a porch, as I did as a child,                  
waiting for the first drop against your bare leg.
Do you tilt your head, hoping to taste the rain
or remain still until darkness gives way to sunlight dancing in puddles...
Do you splash?

 

Sometimes I think of you, but only on sunny afternoons     
before the lawn has been mowed and all I am able to smell is bright green.
After you kick off your sandals, do the tall blades tickle your toes?
Or do you lie, stomach down, searching for your luck in the clover?
No, I no longer think of you, at least not until the end of the day,
just before I cross that bridge between sorrow and unconsciousness.
Then, in that secret stillness, I always remember:                   
I will never know whether to call you son or daughter.

Reviews

[Tim McGovern]

Jesus
the last line breaks your heart.
The pictures you draw of childhood interwoven with weather are wonderful.
The " tilting your head" line was especially evocative to me at least, also the " luck in clover" line as my brothers and I spent hours looking for 4 leafs (leaves?)

My first sigh of the day, and it was a good one.
Thank you
Namaste'
Tim