I Remember

January 10, 2008
By
It was summer still,
July, I recall,
when the burdened trees were still
Fully Clothed
in their finery,
green garments on deciduous backs.

You had called me,
on the telephone, we’ll say
the night before
laughing staccato breaths,
the “can we talk” let out between
jaunty pauses in a teenage monologue.

I said “of course”
For what else could I say to
One
As bright and cryptic
as you,
and so came the moment.

It was endless brevity,
those ponderous seconds,
the extended puzzled immensity of the
unasked question
“Will he or won’t he”
Weighted the air
as if
all the carbon had solidified,
and now lay heavy,
like a woolen blanket,
like a sleeping sun
over the shadowy recess
beneath the profound trees.

I had clasped your hands,
as girls in love may often do,
before the moment of a dream’s
Delivery or Downfall,
and in that slow legato exhale,
as you poised your lips
for that inevitable
Valentine pledge,

You forgot me.

I don’t know how long it was
before I felt the lift of your attention.
I was on the traffic light,
eyes full of moon,
heart full of
quixotic temerity,

And when I finally called your name
with that subtle urgency
I had practiced in the mirror
for minute upon minute
(only waiting for this moment),

The moment had passed
(as had your courage),
and you inhaled the solidified carbon
and commented on the unusual weight of the trees.





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