I make my morning walk today,
it is the summer solstice, after all –
the first morning of summer,
the longest day, the shortest night –
But what good is that, I ask –
a short night is not worth a plug nickel
(to use my father’s vernacular) –
we love the night,
we make love at night,
sweet love we hope
will never end,
an endless night of love –
we dream pure dreams
at night, and pray
those dreams come true –
we plot and strategize
our plan of attack
in the wee hours,
at the midnight hour,
at night.
Of what value, then,
is a short night?
Crossing the bridge,
I shift my timepiece
from 88five to 103five,
“traffic and weather
together, on the eights,”
and the neurons start to fire
in rapid succession…
the tide is high –
portions of the shore
normally exposed
are submerged.
I pause and watch
as the crawling critters
flee the flood and seek
refuge on higher ground,
inching closer and closer
to the human walking trail –
I see tall stalks
of phytolacca americana
growing in groves
along the shore,
sprouting long green leaves,
greens my ancestors used to eat,
thrice-boiled,
as they headed north
to escape an immoral
oppression. “It’s poison
if you don’t cook it right…”
I can hear them whisper
through the rush
of the running tide…
my baby sister is writing poetry
again, mostly in her letters.
I think about her as I turn the corner
onto Frances Scott Key Bridge.
She is the better poet,
she has the gift,
the power to apaziguar o dor –
that’s what friends are for.
I’m nearing home,
my walk almost done.
The longest day of the year
opens its arms before me.
“From the Shenandoah
to the Chesapeake,”
WTOP says on the radio --
all day long.
it is the summer solstice, after all –
the first morning of summer,
the longest day, the shortest night –
But what good is that, I ask –
a short night is not worth a plug nickel
(to use my father’s vernacular) –
we love the night,
we make love at night,
sweet love we hope
will never end,
an endless night of love –
we dream pure dreams
at night, and pray
those dreams come true –
we plot and strategize
our plan of attack
in the wee hours,
at the midnight hour,
at night.
Of what value, then,
is a short night?
Crossing the bridge,
I shift my timepiece
from 88five to 103five,
“traffic and weather
together, on the eights,”
and the neurons start to fire
in rapid succession…
the tide is high –
portions of the shore
normally exposed
are submerged.
I pause and watch
as the crawling critters
flee the flood and seek
refuge on higher ground,
inching closer and closer
to the human walking trail –
I see tall stalks
of phytolacca americana
growing in groves
along the shore,
sprouting long green leaves,
greens my ancestors used to eat,
thrice-boiled,
as they headed north
to escape an immoral
oppression. “It’s poison
if you don’t cook it right…”
I can hear them whisper
through the rush
of the running tide…
my baby sister is writing poetry
again, mostly in her letters.
I think about her as I turn the corner
onto Frances Scott Key Bridge.
She is the better poet,
she has the gift,
the power to apaziguar o dor –
that’s what friends are for.
I’m nearing home,
my walk almost done.
The longest day of the year
opens its arms before me.
“From the Shenandoah
to the Chesapeake,”
WTOP says on the radio --
all day long.
comments are welcome...
ReplyDeleteGood stuff. I started singing along to it, on and off again, with We love the night. Parts and parts really jump out too. I think one can go a lot of places with this if one wants to break it up too (it can be a little collection, like the walkabout), I went somewhere with: "we love the night" and "the longest day of the year" and "I hear them whisper / through the rush[es] / of the rising tide" and really with Apaziguar o dor and a calming and exciting love song (like the tide?), along some We Love the Night lines, with a refrain like:
ReplyDeleteIt's the longest day and
That's what friends are for
But I'm not your friend anymore
My lover sings
No, I'm not your friend anymore