Someplace

Some place, faintly, very faint now,

are our initials written on a stone wall,

from when we were younger, she and I, in high school,

stone carving out stone in a dark, dampened room,

salty and cool; and standing together,

we lightly etched, granite gouging,

a “J” and an “R” and a “W”, holding hands

and holding each other, inseparable,

believing what we carved there,

carved in stone, like stone eternal,

would stay unchanged, and some place, now

are our initials carved, a lovers’ sign,

still carved faintly and unseen, ageless,

stone carving out stone, all that remains of us,

she and I, and those high school days in love.

Rain is Falling through the Roof

Rain is falling through the roof,

drop by drop, and steady,

to collect in a pan I placed there,

an old pan, bent and crushed, used up, no use now

but for collecting fallen rain,

the rain falling through my roof,

drop by drop, and steady,

a rhythmic drumming, a metallic ting over time

transformed, a faint splash grown loud

in the quiet of the room, like an unseen clock ticking

somewhere, growing louder, for sleep evades me, lying here,

the gentle sound of a summer rain above me soothing,

but for this single beat, drop by drop,

steady, rhythmically filling an old pan, bent

and crushed, of no use now, feeding my fears,

overflowing itself and flooding, carrying me away

as I struggle to fall asleep and dream, like Alice

falling down a rabbit hole, adrift in her own tears,

left to wander, directionless, in a world gone mad,

lost and frightened, unable to find my own way home,

where the rain is falling through the roof,

keeping me awake through the seconds passing drop

by drop into an old pan, bent and crushed, and steady.

Wallflowers

In the din of junior high, filtered lights

and muted colors blend with the music’s pulsations

into a hazed memory of standing alone against a wall,

a wallflower, a memory that doesn’t fade as flowers do

in time and decades passing by, passing slowly:

heavy feet drumming and pounding on the wooden floor

of a junior high dance he didn’t want to attend, but did,

feeding his loneliness, a loneliness he still remembers,

like a wallflower pressed flat

between the pages of then and now,

an impression left on the pages of his life.

The loons left yesterday

taking with them their raucous call

to make their way down the coast

to warmer climates, and some days I wonder

why I don’t follow them, just leave behind the frozen ground

and the cold air, wet with snow and ice,

and make my way to a sandy beach to stretch upon,

a little umbrella’d drink nearby,

a winter tan warming my skin and, perhaps,

my spirit, too, lying there, yet thinking of the lake,

of home, and the eagles that remained to catch the thermals

or perch themselves atop a craggy tree in awe

of a winter morning, blue and clear and bright enough

to see into tomorrow and the summer months ahead,

see the things we lose sight of, lost in our own migrations,

sunshine on the winter snow, glistening and alive and fresh,

us, too, remembering, eager for spring and the loons’ return.