At the edge of the sun's influence
a probe is reaching a point called termination shock -
a lightless unknown,
a realm of pure fear and pure hope
where the past and forever
swirl in randomness
not unlike Africa
or a celebrity diet.
Somewhere between Somalia and South Beach
I have lost perspective again
and struggle to find a purchase among old standards:
Is anything more important than a hungry child?
If the answer is always "No,"
then it must come with an asterisk
listing other acceptable responses
*a diseased parent, a poisoned land, an ignorant world.
But I'm sick of asking.
All such questions are hostile.
I cannot proclaim with certainty
that we all want everyone to be well fed, fat free,
and liberated from the tyranny of the sun.
Somewhere between fear and decadence
I cast about for common principles
and binding compassions,
coming up short sheeted
by SUVs, mutual funds, lattes and lap dancing.
Despite my apparent insignificance
I declare herewith my right to carry the torch
for more humble aspirations -
morning rain, warm embraces and bird song,
taking comfort in the knowledge that
the most brilliant meteors
are sometimes only the size of grapes.
ALSO ABOUT TOMORROW
When our son wrecked the car
and I was obsessing about it
and you said
- Look for the love here
We should be thankful he wasn't hurt
We are fortunate to have a son -
I knew those were good things to say
but I was worried about tomorrow,
about insurance rates and loaner cars,
driving records and trade-in values.
And then I thought of the night
you told me you were pregnant
and the panic that came over me,
also about tomorrow
(and money and marriage and manhood)
and I realized that this fabulous boy
we brought into the world,
our artist,
who painted the picture on the wall
17 years later
of a mysterious figure stomping across the tops
of tall wobbly buildings in the dark
on its way toward a broad streak of sunlight,
had painted the love I needed to find.
SEASON AFTER
A small book among my treasured tomes
holds a fairy tale from the north country
about a fair lady, a lock of hair, a letter to a young man
with the words "Goodbye" and "Love Forever"
side by side just as these two were once upon a time
night after night closer than sky and rain.
Between these hallowed covers
are cloudberries and chanterelles
in the forests of trolls and moose,
grass-covered huts buried in the snows of
ancient civilizations,
red shrimp boiled on the boats
carried in on the narrow fingers of the sea,
and a Christmas tree
of branches broken in the wind,
music of antique instruments
and friends of many worlds, many dreams.
No need for me to open this book
as I stand here on the eve of the holiday
turning the pages over and over again
in my thoughts like a child
who can't sleep until the prince
slays the dragon and rescues the fairest in the land,
or to read the part
when they stop waiting up for each other
and holding hands in public places
and asking questions that might have long answers
like why he couldn't turn to her
who had always been the first
to strip them bare of pretense
to keep their hearts from closing at all costs
to reveal small truths before they rose up like monsters,
or turn to the very end
when she cut her hair
and wrote the words goodbye and love forever
as she disappeared into the cold dark sky.
