Sunday, November 8, 2015

Summer Is Over

Touch Me
by Stanley Kunitz

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
                   and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married?  Touch me,
remind me who I am.

Perhaps I enjoy this poem most for the parallels made between nature (as in mother earth) and the changeling-like heart of the human spirit.  How, as the seasons change, so do we.  Or, maybe, our lives enter into seasons all their own.

Time weathers the heart just as the forces of nature weather the outside timber, storm-drain gutters, trees and the still small tweet of a bird.

Sometimes it's sad, the way things drag on...across clocks and ticks and  calendars full of days....a perpetual circle, seemingly never-ending so that sometimes we pay so much attention to the times, and hurts and unsaid words that we sort of forget who we were before the loophole swallowed the meaning from our lives.

1 comment:

  1. yes mi amiga, the seasons come and go, sometimes arriving and leaving too fast, and we brush the leaves off and change clothes and when we step out to see if things and people are still around or if they've changed. when next we step out from our winter's hibernation, time will have rapped its arms around all with one more wrinkle, one more fold, one more stroll in life's time line to be told.. good to hear from you


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