35

An odd number for an

odd couple, an

unlikely pair to some

who couldn’t see

where we were

headed. But, who

needs them anyway? 

When I see you in the

morning darkness

sleeping while I wake, 

I think of all the

mornings I have

wanted to sleep in

longer not to sleep but

rest while you breathe

in and out and in

again without a sound 

or movement. 

“What time is it?” you

ask beneath your

mask buried in a

mountain of pillows as

I sit beside you,

kissing your forehead.

“6:25,” I whisper.

“Good,” you murmur

“five more minutes.”

That’s when I want to

play hooky and climb

in next to you for the

rest of the morning

and 

pray for rain.

When I see you in the

garden watering the

oregano, or tomatoes,

or carrots, lettuce, or

transplanted aloes,

I see you rooted in a

monk’s contemplation,

a garden’s solitude;

your own private

birdland.

Out there you hear

what others cover up. 

Out there you see

what others hide. Out

there you are here.

When I see you read I

can almost hear you

disappear into another

world of

make-believe, a

willing suspension into

disbelief, a sort of

sleep without

sleeping, more

arresting than resting,

a captive audience of

one in the midst of

many voices drowning

out the world around

you into silence. Like

your garden, only

different, like a tree

growing in Brooklyn,

or being dead, only

living and breathing

new life from the

pages turning over

and over until last

chapter, the end.

When I see you

dripping in the sun

fresh from the water,

your ocean or your

pool, I remember the

wet hair curling on

your shoulders as you

walked up the path

underneath the pines.

And the pine needles

on the ground take

me to the mountains

we would climb in our

car returning from the

flatlands to the

highlands and that

welcoming smell of

the pines and their

forest and our many

dwellings we called

home.

When I see you

walking in high heels,

wearing little else

beneath a gray sky

fog soaked rain misty

matinee day I see you

as in a movie, first

shot through an open

window, or an open

meadow, or an open

door, or open arms

awaiting an embrace,

or just waiting; a pose

waiting for the camera

or the artist or the

poet to capture

possibilities without a

cage, still life, still

wild, still moving in a

still image, tilting your

head, lifting your eyes

towards the bare

essentials that bare

uncovered fruit that

takes me back to first

witness, first flesh

between us.

And when I see you

reclining towards me,

your sleep becomes

my painting, your

books become my

poem, your garden

becomes my story,

and your body

becomes my song.

May 27, 2013