THE SHORTEST DAYS

Because I am so happy for you and the life you made

beautiful from the scraps of what we were given. What

we thought were scraps but maybe was our precious

inheritance. I can see it, the guy on Antiques Roadshow —

the blond twin — saying, “This is a national

treasure,” and opening a forged metal box of red maple

leaves, tart apples, snow sky, the calls of Canada geese

winging in formation. Getting the hell out of there. That place

couldn’t hold you. Not even stitched in with my love

for the you who you were then, before you knew yourself. The love

I never said out loud. Words bitter in our mouths, cheap

beer, shadows long over cornfields, squinting into the middle

distance for the thing that hadn’t arrived yet. Someone

who would get you — the you who you were becoming — someone

who would blanket you with understanding. My love for you

was cold comfort. Early frost, raw hands stuffed in pockets

instead of reaching out for your hands. Still, I leaned

toward you. The sunny window of you, the southern exposure,

the narrative arc of geese, the migratory patterns

of birds, of small-town escapees, of lost kids with treasure

maps folded so tight the creases mark new routes to

who knows where. To where we were headed, where someone

waited with warm knowing, with a smile like a Homecoming

bonfire. You put away the box of red leaves

and snow skies, maybe on a shelf for safe keeping. Maybe

you’ll come back to it to remember, sometime,

the pang of winter on the air, breath a frozen cloud, cold

hands deep in pockets, the you still shivering back there

but kindling a fire, too. Even then, even from the scraps

you were given. Forging yourself new, you beautiful queen.

(With thanks and love and apologies to Michael Nolan because I borrowed heavily from his photo caption for the inspiration and, frankly, the heart, of this poem.)

 

Filed under: inspiration, poetry, Writing