NOTES TO A SOLITUDE

Spring evenings... Tree frogs trilling our names through the hush of darkness once lit by the incandescence of you. The tuneful bursting of chirrups and chirps brimming the pine-needled choirs still pipe the dawn to our window, Recalling how you, with a smile, could daybreak the cowering dream-bound shadows of night to their crypt. Flowers you planted forever lie under the debris of your absence, excepting a slip of clematis you set near a railing post, its tiny white crosses whispering your touch each August. An alertness of deer glimpsed out a back window fitfully crop where one time you hailed berry and bush in a haunt you now stun with your loss. Still the river's tides flow through the wake of your days, riffled and wracked by a time when the havening bridge drew you home like wild geese to the river in fall. I sorrow these idols and tunes to the ground where you bless from a pine-shaded stone. I cast my canticled shapes and sounds to the limits of heartbeat and breath and realm your space in my life with feather, leaf, water and bone. crafting this song to create you forever anew. An old man is learning to sing to himself in the dusk.

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