from a Belgium beach with the ladies
to Brussels Plaza here with a Shanghai friend
onward through Berlin, running into two pals,
back to a Boston catch-up at Frieda’s nook,
adding the Washington connection on the terrace,
and dinner-dating my man at home
before headed for the north on the weekend.
the week isn’t over yet,
and not every one can be like it,
but right now, the tide rolls in
and it’s good.
whether they are large or small,
shrill or quiet, abstract or quite tangible —
they only have in common the large white walls
upon which they hang and our wide eyes
looking upon them.
and perhaps the fact that they, too,
we walk out and a man collapses in the train station.
it is a football kind of day, with beer gushing harder
than these first spring rains.
some stop, some help, some pass.
we only have in common the ground we trod on
and our eyes seeing and the fact that we, too,
once started blank. sort of.
on days like this, I am just so glad that
art wins. art is not yet algorithmically controllable.
it is still shaky, still insecure, still true, still more than its little parts,
still grand, waiting to be interpreted and
always to be made anew.
just as each of our encounters.
a Cathedral among women,
she is there for you and me always,
with light shining in
and music moving feet.
built a long time ago
for an entirely miraculous purpose
and sought out by many ever since,
she stands firmly in a shaken, broken world.
happy birthday, mom.
these days were filled with this and that,
here and there with these and those ones.
there were cups of coffee sipped in the sunshine,
grandma visits, dad and mom lunches, sister chats,
a chilled beer on the corner with the friend,
phone calls, bike rides, newspaper articles,
redecorations, spring cleanings, card writings,
long runs, sexy times, Bach at night.
little, calm, unplanned joys were sprinkled throughout,
leading toward this celebration to usher in
the season of the spirit.
the shadow of death will not last,
the curtain will rupture at last.
we too will rise
and fly on eagles’ wings.
If I’d seen him walking out
of that prison into the arms
of his wife and the photo which
the journalist posted, I’d have
sent a bunch of balloons up into
the skies, polka-dotting the firmament
with colorful fingerprints of freedom,
to celebrate this day of commencement.
freedom is always a long
way coming and remains a rocky
road. Now I, too, know and there is no
turning back. The birthing of it all
only ever goes one direction.
So up they flee and fly and spread and
disappear but travel on and on in my
imagination to remind me that out there, it
is solitary and vast but it is so, so very
most of all.