First Impressions

In the writing, my first love appears.
First and last kiss.
Sky falls all around.
Earth becomes salve to wounds.
In the writing, bees return to the queen.

Near the front door, a bluejay nests in the rhododendron bush and beyond that, a daymoon hovers like an apparition. When I see the moon, I suddenly realize I have been holding my breath. I think my whole life has been like that – somehow forgetting to breathe.

Was I ever more than a good, first impression?

Steel blue sky, only once in a while these days. Instead, mostly gray with frequent snow and weeping. No more reading between the lines; the lines have been erased. Yet I still wish for that passage between cup and lip, when the eyes close in anticipation and suddenly open in the pleasure of divine elixir.

I was married in a church, on a steep hill, rising in the middle of the city. One used to see the church from miles away but now, it is dwarfed by tall medical buildings and corporations. Don't read too much into that – symbols of marriage get crowded – Gordon Lightfoot dies – grass is favored over violets. But also, rabbits are born – cardinals visit your feeder – the wind in the pines causes one to listen...to really listen.

Plants and planets. Prisms and pines. The lawn begins to green and come to life with dandelions and violets. I am delighted and confined; it's nothing to get upset about.