just below the rush of burden-lowered branches--once we no longer crept
together over sighing ice, for a glimpse of promise-green beneath the winter,
Pride, with too many tomorrows, conspired that we'd meet our separate ends.
For a youthful slight, you crossed an avenue to shun, and I'd not cross to meet.
Uninvited to your wedding, I sought descriptions of your dress. At the local market,
I'd not set down the cantaloupe and join you for a thumping of the sweetest
watermelons--like those we won in nighttime garden raids. In this small town
you would've heard the very hour each child of mine was born, and know that,
though your name was once my favorite sound, I didn't pass it to my daughter
as I often said I would. Today, at last, I met your child--so much like you--grown
and lovely as the flowers that surround you now. I've learned you spoke so tenderly,
and shared renditions of our unfeminine recklessness. Lingering here between
her greeting and farewell embrace, I realize, dear friend, how scared we've always been.
(c)Allen Weber 2009
published in Up the Staircase
No comments:
Post a Comment