We passed awakefulness that night,
alone yet together,
wrapped in each other's limbs,
like trees full of snow,
their boughs heavily intertwined,
the dull rippling waves of movement
slowly like the wind,
our breath out and in.
And I remember you, your long arms holding me,
smuggling your chest into my hair -
I wept for joy before you saw me.
And again. . . I remember your light,
-strong, clear, true;
your voice without waverance,
-strong, true;
Once you told me
---Oh, but I get ahead of my story.
We passed that night, a long winter's night, so many years ago, now.
Oh, how I think of you, your frail form, still,
softly touching mine.
Were we once real?
Oh, love, was there ever a moment we were separated?
I think of you, your body next to mine, breathing,
passionately, softly, moaning.
I remember you.
I think of you.
I love you.
I loved you then,
oh, one passionate quiet night long ago.
I loved you like a child loves his new red wagon,
so precious he can barely touch,
then overwhelmed by desire to play with,
interact with,
consumed.
Ah, we were once so, -- are we not now?
Green trees, heavy laden with snowfall.
Time together, so brief yet eternal
(Are you not with me now?)
I remember our hours together,
the painfull memory of the shortness of time
interluding the luscious eternity.
(Were we not one?
Did my arms completely envelope you?
And did you not envelope me?
Ah --but I get ahead of my story again.)
So we once were, and erstwhile I return there again,
too often it seems sometime,
for now, today, these days,
sadness and rage and the awful fear of loneliness:
today I am alone.
Today I am at sea.
Today I am with me.
And I think of you.
(The green trees, white snow, long legs, gushing wetness of love . . .
Help me I'm drowning again)
I thought of you, on deck, early this morning,
the roar of the mighty sea breezes whipped against the mast.
You always liked the morning.
You said there was so much blue in the ocean's sky
you could never feel sad again.
I didn't know what you meant.
The yellow of this pad,
your lips against me cheeks,
had not yet touched my soul.
I cried, pretending I did not see.
I cried for your passion spent on loveless life.
I cried for us to be together again.
(We met under stars.
The night air crisp and tingly;
moonless but there was a fire,
quiet sweet fire,
crystal lakes of fire
smouldering in your eyes.
You would not have said so then, but I saw it --
even then I saw it and I said,
"Whoa, John, better watch yourself, this tiger will spring."
But I was already lost to you and it was I who sprung.
You: quiet, a surprised look on your face,
but warmth in your heart
and a breathing that asked beyond me
if life could go on like this.
I thought so,
but I knew nothing then,
by mid-morning you would be gone.
And I,
at sea,
years later,
tell this tale,
to you,
oh my heart,
my soul,
my life.
Come back to me, you nameless form,
your spirit of forgiveness deep.
I who created none of this, (and all),
how can I get you back to me?
Who are you do I call?
What name *shall* I use?
If you came and gone to me before,
without my knowing,
how could I do this again?
White against the blue sky tonight,
a sea bird flies his course
steady along side me now,
into the wind.
We wondered together at the mysteries of life.
Were we not once one?
Could it not be again?
Am I still just a sea bird to you in Menlo Park?
Are you just a green tree in Vermont for me?
Oh, Let me hear from you!
Fantasies, my love,
spill your heart through the point of a pen.
Wander with me through the soul's reaches,
the breezes of love,
a dark moonless night,
the fire in your eyes,
a tiger for a heart.
Your breathing in my ear,
"Come, come! I will take you down to places you will never go again
--and then, I will leave you,
ashes in your mouth,
emptiness for heart,
pulled and thrown and left tossed
- briefly - into eternity.
Was I not meant for you?
Is there not love between us?
Will you not come again?
Sorrowfully I write,
bitter I cannot have you.
Waiting for your call,
some signal,
you are ready for me.
Again.
Waves of hopelesssness washing over me.
It is the next day.
Decks: clean and white.
Sky: blue and bright and birdless.
It is another day.
And I miss you so.
I bury my ache in my chores.
I await your sign and pray that some day
the green mountain trees will wash over us again.
It's Paul.
2 March '86