Spring Morning

To The Lady on the Train,

There are those who would rush Spring to get from bitter Winter to Summer with its languid, sunny days, warm weather, and rolling flash of thunderstorms that resonate in your chest and excite the heart. And sometimes she will oblige and get out of the way. 

This year though she has lingered, relishing the slow process of waking up. There is still the smell of snow along the fence and the grass is frost tipped each morning. 

My love, too, has lingered this morning. The dawn has not yet broken but will soon when first she stirs from slumber; there is no rush.  There is no need to abandon the pillows, the sheets, the duvet that have warmed her, or at times felt too hot and been cast aside only to be gathered a little while later. She now throws aside the duvet at last and swings her legs over the edge of the bed to plant bare feet on the smooth cool floor. 

Straight backed yawn, a slow creak of shoulders stretching, and a wildness of curled hair slowly rise from the bed. Even in the dim grey light of morning, with sleep sanded eyes, and pillow creased face she is beautiful and does not believe that it aches my heart. 

She exits the bedroom to head down the hallway towards the kitchen where the magic elixir of coffee is calling. My love walks slowly, taking the time for the bones to wake up, eyes to adjust, and blood to fill out the limbs and digits. She has left the world of sleep and dreams, but is not yet ready for the day to come and all the busyness that comes with it. She will take her time and linger between these two worlds. 

Outside, the sun has peaked over the rim of the earth and Spring has opened one eye in the pale greening tendrils of the beautiful old willow at the end of the lane. 

Slow Spring and my love have risen, and I will not rush either.

The Man in the Station

Time, time time

To The Lady on the Train,

I have lamented at times the incredibly swift passage of time and how when looking back there is a chasm that yawns ever wider and on the far shore are the days that I would wish to somehow reclaim.  There are some regrets as with any life imperfectly lived, and though the taste of that regret can be bitter, it is not without some sustenance that has helped me also to grow.

And in a random restaurant that I have never heard of, in a random town that I have never before visited, I sat at at booth across from you. And time rolled away like a highway under wheels, until dusk started to press in and bring me back to the reality of distant obligations that I could no longer put off. And you had your places to be as well.

These are times that I do not concern myself with how fast they pass, except that it is always never enough. I could blink an eye and have hours passed and never begrudge or regret a moment of that time. You change how time works... With you, time stands still and yet flies passed. I guess that is why light always bends towards you.

The Man in the Station

The Wandering Pilgrim

To The Lady on the Train,

Is it regret? Is it mourning the loss? Is it the acceptance of the absence of what was? Or is it rebellion against that reality? I guess it does not matter by which name you call the empty longing that has curled inside of me. 

This emptiness is the hair-shiirt that is woven  from your wild curls that I must wear. 

And your beauty is the alter that makes every pilgrimage worth the climb and the miles crossed. The sound of your voice is the siren call that would have me gladly dashed upon the rocks. It is your strength and the way that you look at the world that shifts the sands under my feet. 

Still it is the lines of your white limbs, the round of your bum, and the arch of your back… it is the bright of your eye, the pierce of your smile, and the changing of your eyes… it is the softness of your cheek, the hardness of muscle and sinew, and the universe of freckles… it is this and so much more that are the measure that none can attain. There is no other mountain or shore that has any hold; all paths head only towards you or some mirage of you  

And I will forever be an Odysseus that can never reach his home. 

The Man in the Station