poems
about you and
they’d
all be different and
they’d
all be true.
I
don’t know how to start
with
all these memories
and
all the feelings and
emotions
flapping around like
a
flight of birds against
the
summer air.
I
can pick one out for an instant
before
it’s lost amongst the others
as
some invisible will swoops them
down
and out around the other
side
of a barn.
Maybe
I’ll start with the driftwood
antlers
of our moose and how we
yelled
to keep it a comfortable
distance
away at the portage site.
What
about Starsailor singing
us
through those mountains all
stone
against blue and so high
it’s
as if they were climbing
themselves?
I
should start at the beginning.
The
hallway intersection
into
the living room and the smiles
and
that moment when everyone
else
disappeared.
I
could definitely write something
about
the tent. We were so thirsty.
There
has to be a poem in our
ironic
escape to suburban food chains
and
super-sized bookstores.
All
these little birds of thought just
flying
around carefree and I can’t
get
a bead on any of them.
It’s
all right, though, because soon
enough
a pair of them will
appear
on the other side of that barn
and
find a perch on a fence or a telephone
wire
just long enough to reveal
the
brown and white patterns along
their
wings before others join
them
and there’s a long row
sitting
there against the sky or
the
grain.
Anyway,
I don’t know when they’ll
land,
but when they do
I
could write a thousand
poems
about you and
they’d
all be different and
they’d
all be true.
