April is National Poetry Month, (maybe because someone said it was the cruelest?) which just feels really wrong to me. Winter is poetry season- you need to be able to read under ten quilts, watching snow fall.
I understand that very few people love poetry as much as I do, and that even fewer people walk around with lines of poetry echoing around in their head. But if you want to love poetry, and you want to replace some of your really mundane inner dialogue (just me?) with something better, here you go:
(Also, Lawrence Raab is one of my very, very favorite poets. Mistaking Each Other for Ghosts is beautiful and weird and What We Don't Know About Each Other broke my heart, which is sometimes what you want from poetry.)
I wasn’t thinking of you.
But so much stays the same.
Even a room resists our efforts.
The old things are taken away,
given away, lost. A different
picture then, a new chair.
Entering, I expect you to be there.
These are the inescapable
phrases that hope for more:
something about the weather,
and all that can and cannot
be healed, and how, and how long.
Time passes and it remind us
of everything we happen to remember.
Then we return to the same
few objects, few events. The house
darkens, and the lights come on.
And even this room
changes to fit your absence,
no matter what we say or how
we choose to think about it.
I don't want to say anything about
how dark it is right now, how quiet.
Those yellow lanterns among the trees,
cars on the road beyond the forest,
I have nothing to say about them.
And there's a half moon as well
that I don't want to talk about,
like those slow clouds edged
with silver, or the few unassembled stars.
There's more to all of that than this,
of course, and you would know it
better than most, better I mean
than any other, which is only
to say I had always intended
finding you here where I could
tell you exactly what I wanted to say
as if I had nothing to say
to anyone but you.