I step out into the winter coming and there you are - early riser!
As much everywhere as nowhere. You breathe leaves effortlessly into
The wind and I find it astonishing how your breath leaves tracks
Always that are untraceable, little imprints of you, little
Seeds of elfishness. I have tried to follow them but to no avail.
A voice I thought was yours called wilfully and I went after it along
Empty 5 a.m. streets chasing the words that disappeared through the
Cracked windows of the old record store, losing the meaning of them
Still, finding you in every syllable. I couldn’t figure out the secret code, couldn’t
Untangle the echo, so I came back empty-handled. It’s as it should be.
I believe you must have been a winged angel in another time. I saw you flying
In a slow dream once with the grace of a dove. You moved like lightning through
The air, you moved as love moves when it is wanton. Inaudible you! My aviator’s Soul. There is no reason why this should cause my heart to beat irregular, but it does.
The very birds in their morning language tell me you are too mischievous. “He is a
Trickster my dear!” the starlings cry, “And he will surely break your heart.” It is
An old familiar song, the ship’s foghorn bellowing out warnings I recognize all too
Well. It is futile and it falls on the deafest of ears. Even the leaves of yester-year
Rustle out the reality of you and your adventurous ways, this matter-of-fact, this
Thing in which I chose to believe. It is a faith much like prayer, more solid
Than the scriptures, sturdier than the rock I have just stumbled upon, that rolls its
Roughness out like dice and, by chance, breaks, uncovering ice-colours in broad
Daylight. I think: “Love has a vision, doesn’t it, far beyond the absolute or perfect?”
It is not blind at all but, quite the opposite, sees more clearly than eyes the
Gem beneath crenelated surfaces, truth before lies, the real thing. Across the
Landscape of human beings, you are the jewel of all jewels, you are the
Magnificent One. Children in snowsuits and mittens climbing up on swings
Are less innocent than you in your fairy-ness. Thus
Do I finish, leaving the
Leaves breathing and the birds with their own
Meaning and the soul-baring all behind, the
Sun’s signature on a ground that already
Seems frozen, the snow not quite there yet,
For Tim Carter