The chimes on the porch
sing so loudly
in this easterly wind
that I am lulled
by the sweet afternoon
concert
in the shade of
a walnut tree
back
to our silent discourse
under the mango trees
where we spoke
in our own special language
of smiles and looks –
and gestures:
not unlike the words
of children at play
all wide eyed,
flinging arms-
faces
only inches from
each other – so close
I could see the light blue
ring around the pupils
of your dark eyes:
like a bright orb
around a dim planet
gifting it with luminescence
and uniqueness-
something else we share
beside our propensity
for gloominess
and love of words-
irony of ironies
for two poets
to sit in a long muted pause.
Today the wind chimes
and mating starlings
have taken up your cause,
breaking the permanent silence
only death can bring:
they sing relentlessly
almost violently
as if I needed a reminder
that even now,
and more so then ever
you are to be heard,
insisting my last
promise
be kept,
and so I whisper
to myself
I will not stop writing …….
These words
are now our
only discourse,
and like the chimes
that hang quiet
until the perfect wind
creates
an elegant
and sudden
harmony of notes,
I live day to day
weighing
the value of an image:
the movement of spring leaves
in the evening light;
as nuthaches
climb the newly greening
branches
of the walnut tree
like tiny tightropes,
spinning their orange
creamy breasts
180 degrees
like the daredevils
they are,
or honing the syntax
to be as clean
as clear
as precise
as the hole
some flicker
has bored
on our street’s light pole,
day after day
hour after hour
drilling
with its
weapon of a beak
so it may
swoop deep
into the cavity
and sit
in all its
redcap glory
peering at those below
like the unknowing
uninterested
peons that we are.
But I do notice
for both of us –
capitan,
you have taught me well.
