Winter Solstice

 Winter Solstice

We have arrived at the winter solstice through tough and isolating times. The mornings are dark and cold. We are layered in dark clothing, shrouding ourselves in coats, hats, hoods, and masks should we dare to venture outdoors. In stations and streets while we wait for the busses, streetcars or trains that will take us into a quieter city, we stomp in our boots and try to conjure the memories of our warm beds, or perhaps even a more vibrant city. Though we have risen, showered and brushed – we have tidied our appearance and made ourselves presentable for the day – our minds, hearts and bodies still long to linger on soft pillows and under duvets – to turn in crisp sheets and to feel the warmth emanating from a lover. We may long to return to our beds and perhaps to feel one drawn close and to make sleepy love, to lounge, and to pamper our bodies and souls – to take care of, and to be taken care of. Or we may simply want to return to our own dreams, to rest and be restored. And even in this trudging into the city for work or shopping, we will still know that we are not the least lucky amongst us. There are those who will stay indoors on this darkest and dreariest day of the year and not venture out at all. They will not experience the wet cold of this winter day. They will not not look up to the flat slate of a grey sky or feel the wind making their noses run. They will stay shut indoors much like they have for the last 18 months of this pandemic. So for all of it's dreariness and oppressive darkness, we consider ourselves blessed to be able to experience even this day, even in the darkness. The day calls us with devices, books and headphones and we separate ourselves from our surroundings and each other. We rattle and rumble on roads and rails, the noises are harder and the lights are harsher and too bright. We draw ourselves into our own worlds in vain attempts to keep the noise and bustle of the world and a virus at bay. As downtown approaches, the press of the day breaks through and the memory of our beds is just a shadow that you cannot hold onto. We will rise from our seats and step into the world. We will push our way through the day until we can return to the warm cocoon of our bed – to return to winter’s sleep.

LIghtBright

To the Lady on the Train,

If I could light all the stars

let them burn bright through the day

and blaze the sky at night

I would paint them

in the shape of the hollow

that you leave in my bed

The Man in the Station

October escape

Angel,

The early October sky is a low flat grey and the rains have come. These rains are not the midsummer thunderstorms that roll over us at night with their suddenness and with flashes of blinding light and thunder tat approaches to shakes the windows and you feel as much in your chest as you hear. These are the cold and dreary  long wet that seems to soak into everything, including our souls. These are the rains that soak us into a melancholic torpor. It is dark and a cold wind blows outside while inside the furnace blows hot air and it all feels too close. It is dark and the sun cannot be seen in the sky and the clouds do not move and there is no escape except, well, there is no escape except to escape. 

Some will curl on the couch with a tea, a blanket and a book in the den like darkness of a living-room; a book spot-lighted, and there the mind may escape the drag of an October day. But in my own lazy restlessness, the need for a more distant escape calls. 

A loaded truck heading north on a two lane highway and every song reminds me of you. Even when you are not with me, I carry you still. In eight hours, two gas stations stops, and too many coffees my headlights light the final curve of a tree lined track and slope into a clearing behind the cabin. It is a moonless, starless pitch black night; the trees still dripping though the rain has stopped. I am soaked to the knees by the time I get my gear into the mudroom. 

I have arrived at a small cedar lined cabin set on a shoulder of rocky clearing next to a deep Canadian shield lake. The path winds down to the shore where a dock juts out into the ink dark lake, flat as glass.

Over the coming days I will build fires in the stove to dispel the chill. I will walk the woods, leaving only footprints on the hushed leaf littered earth. And I will drink strong coffee on the end of the dock to watch the sun rise and set and the stars and moon arch their way across the sky. I will skip stones across the skin of the water, a chain of ripples the only break to the mirror of the far shore. While I am alone, you are always with me; I cannot set you down.

Though the autumn rains still fall and there are grey days, the torpor has fallen from my limbs. Perhaps it is the chopping of wood or the quiet thrill of observing the changing forest, or the smell of lake, and earth, and trees that has restored me. Or perhaps it is just the change from the grey city that has allowed me to appreciate these cold grey days for what they truly are; a necessary part of the circling of the seasons, a readying for the winter to come. These days are the signal for us to take the time to prepare; to take the time for what is important.

Just me.

 

If ever...

 To The Lady on the Train,

If ever you have one of those nights when sleep won't come and doubts and self recriminations run around in your head...

If you ever rise in a dark morning too tired to get up and too tired to stay in bed...

If when you swing your feet onto the floor dreading the day ahead yet relieved that the end of night is in sight...

If you are facing a day that seems too big and fraught with too many things that might go wrong...

And if when you look at the past you only see everything that might have been...

If when you look and all that you can see is all that you lack...

I hope that I am there to remind you that you are way more than you give yourself credit for.

I hope that I am there to remind you that there is no day but today.

I hope that I am there to remind you that however things are right now, they will surely change.

I hope that I am there to show you that all that you are, is amazing.

I hope that I am there to witness you take on the day with strength you forgot you had.

I hope that I am there for you.

The Man in the Station

Imagined Morning

 Angel,

I imagine that I am waking up with you beside me.

The room is still dark but I can make out your outline like a distant landscape of hills and valleys; an unpredictable land familiar but with more to discover.

As the first glow of the morning seeps into the room, the light is reflected in your eyes. A slow sleepy smile and the backs of my fingers run along your cheek to below your ear, my fingers losing themselves into the wild tumble of curls.

You sigh and press yourself into the mattress; the landscape rolls and settles into the quiet of a twilight room.

As the sun rises, extinguishing the stars in the sky, she illuminates the constellations freckled on your skin. 

Running my fingers down your spine is to travel through galaxies. The universe wheels as you turn your back to me and press the softness of your round bum against me.

And here we lie close in the soft light. And I will slowly trace the landscape of you. I will fall into your universe and let you guide my travels.

Just me.

Gravity, Days, and Nights

Without you, we would not have gravity or days or nights. 

Gravity is the earth holding you close.

Then she turns to show you to the heavens,

making the sun, moon and all the stars jealous.

For she holds you.

We Dance

 For you, as always

We dance at night. Our bare feet pound into the dirt and the dust clouds around our knees. The bonfire glows orange making it look as though we are rising up from a burning earth. 

We stomp and shuffle in a circle to a drumbeat that is older than our ancestors. We dance, moved by a force remembered in our bones. Our muscles strain and twitch, our sinews stretched, and skin taut on our frames, beading sweat. 

Before there were modern humans, we danced. We dance still. We are an unbroken line of primitive for we are still primitive. 

Like our ancestors ancestors we toss back our heads, mouths opened to the sky. We sing out our souls to the stars 'We are here'. 

We have been here for centuries. We are still here.

Just me.

If I were a penguin

During courtship, a male penguin will find the smoothest pebble to give to a female as a gift.

And I would grind a granite mountain into a polished thumb of rock for you to hold in the palm of your hand. 

In return, all I would ask is to be able to hang onto that scent that you carelessly leave in your blouse.

It is the scent that lingers in your curls when I kiss your cheek.

In hope and fear

 To you, for you

My hand, mid air
cupped palm up, fingers curled
a quiet landscape, a creased roadmap of skin
belies the tectonic tension
just below the surface
of hoping that your hand will rest in mine

Always,

Just me

Getting Old

Angel,

You worry about getting old. I don’t care. It is irrelevant and let me tell you why. 

When I sat beside you I had to keep reminding myself to not stare at you. I had to keep reminding myself to keep my feet on the ground so that I would not float above the ground.

I do not know what magic it is that you possess that breaks the laws of physics; changing gravity and warping time.

You can stretch a moment into a slow motion span that lasts forever and you can shrink hours into the blink of an eye.

You can make a man float about the earth when with you and you draw people closer to you. You create your own gravity.

Being beside you, gravity has no normal hold and time has no meaning. 

There is no getting old in a world that has you in it.

Just me.

Jealous

To The Lady on the Train,

Yes I am jealous.

I am jealous of the way your shirt clings to your body.

I am jealous of the way your dress swings from your hips when you move.

I am jealous of the breeze that brushes past your skin.

I am jealous of the sheets that you lay on as you dream.

And I am jealous of the moon,

Even with all this distance,

there he is to watch you sleep

And I am jealous of the sun,

there she is to watch you wake,

and greet you every morning.

While all I can do is whisper to the stars how they can never be you.

The Man in the Station

Where I want to be

 To The Lady on the Train,

The scent of you filling me and the taste of your skin on my lips is the closest to heaven I've ever been. It is my favourite place to be.

The Man in the Station

Cartography

To The Lady on the Train,

I do not know how to map an entire universe with just my hands, but I have traced the constellations on your skin. I have fallen through a galaxy of stars just looking at you as you turn toward me. I have discovered worlds of unimaginable beauty by listening to your sighs.

You are magic and have condensed time and space into your form. 

The Man in the Station

You are my favourite

You are my favourite dream.

You are my favourite thought.

You should know

Angel,

In the small moments when you begin to doubt yourself,

when in the quiet, the fear of not being enough creeps in,

when you are fearful of the grey and the creases and the years that have changed you,

in the times that you cannot sleep wondering if you are enough,

know this:

You are strong and have proven to yourself and the world of your strength.

You carry with you love enough to lift the world.

You have weathered the arrows and barbs of cruel words, and you are still standing tall.

You have a strength that lives in your spirit and in your limbs.

You are stronger than you know.

You are beautiful beyond measure.

You have a beauty that does not live in just your skin or your hair.

You have a beauty that cares not for the colour of your eyes nor the clothes you choose.

You have a beauty that is all of you and cannot be dimmed.

You are more beautiful than you know.

You are more than enough. You are more than you know.

Just me.

I Still Look for You

To The Lady on the Train,

Do you know that I still look for you?

Even in the most impossible of places, my eye looks to catch a glimpse of you in the distance. Perhaps a tumble of curls and the swing of your arm or a turning of your face toward me? There are times I see someone who might strike some remote resemblance to you, in a certain light, from a particular angle, or if you squint and imagine...

But no, you are not in these impossible places. You are not at my local grocery store. You are not at the park near me. You are not waiting to walk with me. You are not in the station and you are not on the train.

I look for you but you are not here and so I look for you in others. I search for you in every person. I search for you in strangers.

No one else draws the universe with the freckles on their skin.

No one else changes the angle of light so it brightens a room.

No one else says my name so that it sounds like the beating of my heart.

No one else has eyes that shine, are as deep, and change like the sea.

No one else changes gravity, making everything light.

No on else is you. No one is even close.

I still look for you. I will always look for you.

The Man in the Station