medley from a happy fictional past
I like to wonder sometimes if you’ve ever received a love letter? My assumption is that you are suffocated by them, but then again, they have lost their place in our time. I know for myself I have a few from my childhood that I still read with warmth. I can hear the soft voices of those who penned them. My intention, I suppose, when writing you is to, at the very least, retain a place in your past. That one day you might reread some of my letters with a smile. The reward that God grants us for our forays into the world is that we are allowed to remember the candid smiles of those we love and nothing could supplement the pleasant rosy tinge of a sunrise better than yours. Is there not a world where I can wake up to your smile? Where I can study those eyes whose bluish hue awakens the most vibrant harvest? Let’s not think too hard… What after all is the thought behind a frolic? Is a garden saunter not the enemy of reason? Why do we plant flowers if not to redeem ourselves as viceroys of passion? Yes, my daydreams seldom venture beyond the elegances of a cypress vine, the levity of a tulip, but ever so often your image cultivates this space, my most intimate enclosure and I sleep easy knowing that your beauty graces the world.
Amidst lingering earnest morning skies,
Gray slows time, as do her eyes,
Whose bluish hue awakens deep
A vibrant harvest grown to reap.
With it comes that joy profound,
Frolicking rabbits with spring abound.
And baskets filled with carrot stalks,
Pathways lined with smiling rocks.
Imagine now a modest home,
Her speech that takes a private tone.
Near a whisper she begins to say,
With pink-red cheeks, “I’d like to play.”
The garden calls us hand in hand.
Bare feet greeted by distant sand,
Helping foreign flowers grow,
Planting seeds within our soul.
We dance then under shaded tree,
To swallows singing with tender glee.
Leaning down upon her chest,
I hear a lovely heart at rest.
The hours pass one by one,
who knew stillness could be so fun?
My mind is here, it does not drift,
Tender souls this place can lift.
At dinner time we sit
and side by side commit
To the pact we made in separate youths;
Love with faith, honesty. To judge, refuse.
Imagine now a little girl,
Blonde hair like mom, with my curls.
We walk as three, in woods we bond,
singing to birds who happy, respond.
Oh how in the quietest hour,
her eyes with mine began to flower.
Alive in them this wholesome scene,
Together now we share a dream.
Honesty is a rare virtue, one that I imagine myself as possessing as well. I cling to it with resolution, accepting it’s consequences. Proust describes women as vistas of happiness and I see this metaphor come to life in you. Despite such a vivid projection he misses something. Not only is the view into the future sublime but the image is so captivating that it reaches its tender hand into the past, applying a balm that alleviates previous injuries.
Anticipation paints your figure
The vibrant color of summer morn.
Your pleasant lips delicately configure
The words for which I was surely born.
“Good morning,” you say with grace
And, “how are you,” escapes as well.
Tomato cheeks, my reddened face,
I wish to describe how exactly I fell
For you, of course, and for that smile.
From heaven it came for flowers sake
To clutch my heart like crocodile,
It frees me of my worst mistakes.
Like an angel do you prance, profound,
Past me in my lonely hour.
In loyalty and love my heart is bound
And I concede all earthly power.
Oh, I proclaim there’s none like you,
For whom my whole world revolves,
And pleasant thoughts with joy imbued.
The tension of life then dissolves.
I’m reminded of our dear friend Clarissa’s insight, that there is no pleasure greater than straightening the chairs, wiping the counter top. No moment long enough. I live in a state of anguish married to bliss, mourning each lost moment and rejoicing at the present. I like the pace, the responsibility of being the first person you see in the morning. Isn’t that such a profound responsibility? And the poetry of our short conversations. How often we just stop and talk. The reconciliation between you and I, after realizing we know each other too well, to place less emphasis on the actual words spoken and more on the underlying sentiment of the discussion, which is, “despite our differences, I love you.” The preciousness of a simple good morning. Cold winter smiles. Anxious morning walks..