Skysong

 Skysong

28 February 2023

He awakens me, for the trillionth time, 

With a lingering kiss,

And, for the trillionth time, I blush, 

Warmth starting in the utter east,

Then radiating up and out.

When he kisses me goodnight,

With one last blush-inducing caress,

I grow cold and lonesome,

Especially in winter

When sharp stars prick the night,

Shrill reminders of what I no longer have.

Summers are better:

He's not gone so long,

And I stow some of his warmth away

Packed in the humidity of the night,

And even the stars get soft around the edges,

Their voices deep and mellow

Under layers of cricket-and-frog-song.

But every single morning, oh! 

His lips are hungry, and so am I,

And he flames up and fills me, 

Warming me from east to west,

Certain as the dawn, of course.

And the wonder is not

That this is the trillionth time

Or even that he's never missed a day,

But that he is 

right here,

right now,

with me.

A Trip to the Cape

 A Trip to the Cape

For Magen, on the occasion of our 19th Valentine’s Day together, in memory of our June 2018 trip to Massachusetts.

Do you remember that day on the Cape, Our children entrusted to young Springers Hiking up a mountain somewhere in Colorado? We drove up the Atlantic coast, Past endless beaches and lovely old lighthouses, Not alone, as I had promised,  But at the tender traveling mercies  Of our friend Chuck, jokester and retired undertaker,

And his remarkably patient wife, Phyllis.

We loved them, of course,

And were grateful for their generous hospitality.

But you had envisioned a New England tour,

Romantic, lovely, free of stresses,

At a leisurely pace through the northeast

In fall when the foliage flamed,

Retiring together to a B&B bed piled with quilts

At the end of the day, hearts and eyes

Sated with goodness, beauty, and sweet company.

I had envisioned the same sort of thing,

But on a budget.

So I allowed my cheapness to defeat

Your best ideas, your earnest desires,

And that is why we were staying on twin beds

In Chuck and Phyllis’s stifling attic guestroom

And riding in the back of their Camry

Along every blessed inch of Cape Cod.

(To say nothing of my storm-dissolved plan

For a romantic Rhode Island getaway

That became a night of pure discomfort,

Trying to sleep on an airport bench in Baltimore.)

It is true that we ate at that cute farm-to table place,

And learned many edifying facts about The Pilgrims,

And some fascinating ones about the undertaking business,

And got out at probably every lighthouse there is on Cape Cod,

And shared the exciting horror of Chuck’s accident in P-Town,

His slow, baffled descent from the tipping restaurant bench,

His head hitting the ground with a sick thud,

And the way the queer servers attended to him so kindly

That he was forced to reassess his opinions of them.

But none of that was very romantic,

And I would have been sorry I ever dragged you along

On this ludicrous, tantalizing mockery of your dream vacation

If it hadn’t been for the reassuring warmth of your hand in mine

And your heartmelting smile in the June sunshine

And the way those American flag earrings brought out the blue in your eyes

And how you fit just right in the crook of my arm

Even at 2 am on a metal bench in the Baltimore airport

When there was no hope of sleep anytime soon.

Worth

I find that I flee

From silence 

And solitude

And even sleep,

Filling their sacred void

With sound and fury,

Talking heads and tiktokers,

Resonant, relentless voices 

Selling wares 

Without worth.

I flee because 

I feel a flame

Flickering in the deep dark,

And I fear it will find me,

Pass over me,

Utterly consume me,

Leaving behind only hints

Of the self I thought I was:

Ashes and dust, 

Without worth.

I flee because

I don’t yet believe

The truth I profess:

A flame is there, yes,

And it consumes, yes,

But it’s there to unbury 

A hidden treasure,

To burn away my dross,

And finally reveal 

All of my worth.