THE HIMMELI ARTIST

 

Bring to me a field of endless rye

and place it in my hand.

Bring to me, too, the hand itself before

it stops to thread the needle.

Bring to me the thick urgency of soil

spinning green into shoots of golden brown.

Bring to me the consistency

of late summer sun, steadfast as a stone,

never once receding from view.

Bring to me the cleanest line drawn

from one end of the horizon to the other,

the landscape behind your eye.

Bring to me the everyday miracle

of bread, to be hung upon the open air,

the warm kitchen light that holds it

like a newborn to the world.

Bring to me the mathematics of love,

the endless intricacies of its music,

and the silence both contain.

Bring to me the sacred geometry of ladders,

those patterns within patterns,

the endless steps without ascension.

Bring to me your castle made of doorways,

one entrance leading into another.

Bring to me your rooms without room.

Bring to me the exact intersection

where we, dear friend, may one day meet,

our words spinning gently as leaves,

our glances finally understood.

DOG DAY LULLABY

 

It's morning still, and already 95 degrees.

The heat has come early and stayed,

settled in like an unwelcome guest,

clinging to everything, walking through

walls and windows, warping the closet doors

and desk drawers, weighing down

the pockets of our thin, damp clothing.

The ceiling fans turn without pause, as does

our world, of course, but slowly, slowly.

The birds have retreated into leaf-shadow.

The dogs make no sound but breath.

The daylilies bend wearily toward the earth.

From our balcony, amongst our collection

of winged seeds and twigs, my daughter

sings a song to the trees, soft and melodious,

words blowing through her at their ease,

repeating the sounds that please her.

It's a lullaby, she explains, to lull them to sleep;

and it's true, the trees seem to be hardly

moving now, as if granted a secret reprieve

by one who shares their native language.

In this way, our day has been blessed.

In this way, the air itself made light again.

THE NEARNESS OF THE LANDLINE

 

No one sounded far away in those days,

our voices traveling through the seemingly

endless wire, across cities and fields,

great bodies of water that we could never

have crossed by ourselves alone.

We could talk for hours if we were so inclined,

listening, our ears growing hot beneath

the receiver's unlit stars, saying everything

while outwardly not saying much at all.

We could hear the slightest crinkle of fabric

shifting, the restless tapping of a finger

against the soft contours of the bed,

the puff and crackle of a clove cigarette.

We could hear sound before the sound itself.

Our conversations were not dropped.

Sometimes they lingered for years.

Some, perhaps, have yet to be resolved.

But we were never afraid of silence,

never in a hurry to interrupt or explain.

We could hold the line long into the night,

the weight of its body hard against our chests,

the thick, unruly cord forever tangled,

our tired voices unspooling into breath.

"Are you still there?," I can almost hear you

whisper, as we drifted closer into sleep,

each of us in our own separate worlds,

each of us weighted with a separate longing.

We may never find the proper response.

We may never be that close again.

TANGLETOWN

 

I like best walking these twisting roads

alone, the evening just beginning

to settle in, cars cooling along the curbs,

a few lights on here and there.

I like best getting lost when it's still

somehow a choice, one unexpected turn

leading imperceptibly to the next,

where I can think or not think,

carry my ghosts on either shoulder

without the slightest exertion.

I like best to hear the grasses exhale,

the leaves perform their fan dance

against a shifting cobalt sky,

breathe the fleeting breath of lilac,

their delicate wonder already receding.

I read the pictographs that the kids

have left upon the sidewalks,

small messages of hope and whimsy

more dependable than the street signs,

which seem to point randomly

into trees, yards, and roundabouts.

I have come to appreciate the beauty

of this unknowing, where almost

any path can bring you unexpectedly

home -- which is to say, right back

here, where you started from.

DAYS OF SINGING

 

In those days, everyone seemed

to be singing. My mother sang the old

country hymns, the simple notes

from her guitar ringing clear and warm,

the mystery of words casting its first spell.

We all sang in church, even those

of us who could not, our thin Midwest

voices graciously lifted by those

whose joyful noisemaking rose to the rafters.

We sang at school to remember

the names of states and presidents,

invented name-songs for the pretty girls

we were still too shy to speak to.

We sang to pass the time, to count the miles

on field trips, and the long, dull drives

in our family's failing station wagons.

We sang in grocery stores and restaurants,

the teenage waiter, surely underpaid,

singing as he brought you your slice of

birthday cake, sparkling proudly with light.

The radio and television gave to us

a seemingly endless variety of jingles,

the housewives, children, and store clerks

filled with sudden musical wonder

brought on by new detergents,

deodorants, and breakfast cereals.

Nearly everything, it seemed, was worth

singing about. And everyone hummed along.

I don't know when the singing stopped,

or if any of us noticed. We had lives,

jobs, worries that we held close in silence.

But these days much of my life is again

narrated in song, measured out

by a spirited daughter, who praises

the sun and the rain without question,

who conjures goblins in hushed, lower tones,

sings the months of the year in Spanish,

and offers a silly rhyme up for her old man.

"Dad, do you like my song?," she asks

from the other room, knowing my reply

in advance; and I call back to her, from what

suddenly feels like a distance of years,

"Yes! Let me hear it one more time."

THE HAT

 

Today the wind rushes up, seemingly

from the other side of the world,

not even tired from the journey,

barely pausing to consider the withered

leaves from last fall, or the plastic

chairs it tosses to the littered sidewalk;

it takes your favorite hat without apology

as if in celebration of itself, drags it

through the grocery store parking lot,

slowing just long enough to keep

you chasing, your hat turning and tumbling

mindlessly out into the busy street,

as you continue to follow, the world

around you fading, your awkward body

bent low to the ground, arms

reaching out for this one small thing,

one small piece of familiar, that you

suddenly fear you may never touch again.

BALLET CLASS ABOVE FRATTALLONE'S HARDWARE STORE

 

Copper pans and kettles rattle

beneath the clamor of dancer's feet,

a measured stampede rising

and falling, seemingly directionless,

from a distance we cannot quite fathom.

Step into the warm summer afternoon

and you can hear the upright piano

plunking out the same five or six notes

through the large open windows,

emphatic and out of tune, demanding

grace as if it were simply a matter

of mathematics, the seemingly endless

counting of steps and motion,

breathe and leap, and breathe again.

Look up and you can just make out

the arms of the young students,

reaching out like thin new branches,

then joining together above their heads

like a dozen orbs of sunlight

held against the dusty window glass.

We applaud from the white sidewalk below,

continuing in our separate directions;

our own steps for a moment somehow

lighter, our shoulders held back

as if by an unseen hand, blood-warm,

familiar, gentle as the breeze.