Monday, February 16, 2009

He Shouted With a Gritty Look in His Eyes

Words that make other words sing.
Or shout or cringe.
How I wish more words would stick in some file box of my brain.
So I could draw them out when I want to explain
That weird loneliness that creeps over me.
How do I describe the combination of a smell and a breeze
That is like time travel?
Just a hint of fried chicken at 5:30
On a spring early evening
Takes me back to age nine and a safe feeling
Mom would be in the kitchen
And I would eat supper
And I never worried about having enough
It wasn't the crispness, greasiness, or warmth.
It wasn't just the sun and shadows and sprinklers running.
It wasn't even the thought of home.
It was somehow all these together but I don't know how to say it.
I felt secure, contented, sheltered,
But never then could I have said that.
At nine I'd have said
Hungry or happy or playful.
It's the looking back I can't express
I think it's complete, tender, soft, sweet.
I think it's innocence and green and light.
It's a dream and a wish and a reality.
No gritty looks, no evil eyes.
Just blue and love unspoken,
Yellow and love lived.

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