Danielle Fields 0002638785 Life. What is a poem, you ask. A poem reflects beauty, Serene portraits delicately framed In a carefully crafted prose. The flowers in the spring that saturate the air with life, The warm smell of cedar sap When you leave your bedroom window Open all night to let in cool air On a hot summer night. It’s the crickets and the gentle waves And the feeling of sand Squishing between your toes. It’s the feeling of a first kiss And the rush it gives you.
The cancer patient reminiscing in the life he has left, The cross on the wall his reminder for hope in the next. He grits his teeth until his jaw aches from exhaustion. All he can do is sit in his white, sterile coffin And watch the people go by his door. He remembers when he was the one walking through those corridors, Thinking, they are the ones who will not wake up in the morning; Ghosts not here nor there, straddling that eternal divide. He mumbles a prayer for those poor souls, who were as hopeless as he.
This is not poetry.
This is the cancer patient Receiving a transplant Hours before he surely would have gone on. He hears the nurses talk about the tragic wreck. Such a young boy. What was his name, the man asks; then more fervently, What was his name? Please do tell me. We cannot tell; be grateful, you’re given a second chance today. Thank God he decided to show pity on you. He mumbles a prayer for those poor souls, who are as hopeless as he.
It is not a single movement, But one of many, full of intricate dischord, All waiting for that one resolving note shattering the dissonance.
A propelling force driven by the unquenchable need to overcome, overpower. One that black iron gates and marble slabs tribute to but cannot hold.
Do you ever grow tired of this place? Surely this is the hundredth time we have been here. The sounds of the evening began its climb to mezzo forte, Artemis stirring up the chorus of those whom she oversaw. We lay out on the boot Just close enough to where the water gently tickled our feet. The willow hung low over us, conversing quietly with the wind, As if it were gracefully acknowledging the memories of the years it bore Wrapped around its core, engraved into its coarse exterior.
The fish bones littering the charred sand a few feet up the mossy embankment, A testimony to Saturday night. The blanched moth fluttering violently in a spider’s web on one of the willow’s far branches, Desperately trying to free itself from the delicate deathtrap, Only to further ensnare itself.
No, came my reply. I will not grow tired of the lake.
Change will come soon.
Waves lapped over the rocks and our toes largamente, rhythmic. The sun cast its final hues on its canvas, as it had done for millions of years, Yet producing a different painting every time. The master artist, never replicating its work; never ceasing in its search for its masterpiece. The sand was still warm from its touch.
He and I sat and talked, debated as we had done for the past few years, Mindless things, things one would not remember on a casual day. The ease of conversation that only the comfort of years brought.
Souls welded by tears and anger and forgiveness,
The gritty love that two halves share. He speaks briefly of marriage, A union of Western convention- pledges and vows in the smith’s Sabbath furnace. Ah, but what we will not do for love.
The frog crashed into the shallows, breaking my train of thought, startling us. The frog peered out from the safety of the waters, He, too, unsure of who had done the spooking. The ripples slowly advanced outwards giving his hiding place away, becoming gentle wrinkles, Disappearing into the dimming waters. After a while I lost track of them.
He laughed that day, an effortless laugh; One that comes with the ease of innocence and a light heart. No, he said, this is our place.
I don’t think I will ever grow tired of it either.
Sunset, the 3th of October, 2008
I sat as I had done for years, underneath that willow. I leaned against it, letting it bear the weight; I traced those initials, over and over,
Ignored the blurring in my eyes,
The ripping aching hole in my chest,
Ignoring the bark under my fingernail. Ignoring the fresh engraving, An unusual expiration date, One that was up well before its time.
Forgetting that drunk semis kill,
That people die. I watch the sunset, and the waves. Lay on the warm sand.
Today’s sorrow should not tarry to tomorrow, But be prompt in making its lessons learned, Then moving on until the next time its services are needed.
Yes, do believe my heart will grow weary of this place. I knocked down the web blocking my path and made my way back to the main shore.
In loving memory of Connor Steele, who was killed by a semi driver who ran him off of the road.