It's not just because
I love getting letters
A mailbox, attached
To an errant wall, just
Outside your apartment,
Is a truly special thing
Private in the way the
U.S.P.S. can never be,
Communication from
Here to anywhere, to
Me, is just ours. I can
Imagine the wriiten
Pages, sealed and then
Addressed, dropped
In that singular box.
They would be love
Letters, they would be
Secret missives, they
Would be private, ours.
Life imitates art, painting,
Dance, even the houses
That house us, words and
Stories, it's art that gives
Us the blueprint for our
Lives, guiding us across
The divides between our
Reality and our fealty. We
Know about honor and
Loyalty because someone
Wrote about them, told us
How to and what to think.
Life imitates art, follows it
Around like a puppy with
A toy in its mouth, innocent
Of any thought but full of
Instinct and juice. Life=art.
In a world gone mad, perhaps
No madder, crazier than it has
Been building - puffing itself up
To, a world askew, I dream of
You sitting by my left shoulder,
When I awake disappointed to
Find you gone, this feels sane,
Missing you in a world turned
Mad by liars, confidence men,
Swindlers and cheats. You are
Safe not having to deal with a
Different kind of crazy, an evil,
Your memory gave me safety,
Dreaming of you, sitting by me
I would have been wearing black,
In the traditions of a traditional
Mourning, a widow decked head
To toe in the colors of loss. Months
Would pass like that, and my grief
Would be symbolized by my attire.
Without widow's weeds, the black
Of mourning is all on the inside, my
Inner self. Oh, nobody mourns all
The time. I know that. I did not, I
Don't know, deserve the guilt I feel
For not being sad at this moment.
At every moment that passes, all
The moments in which I miss you,
Burt, but I am not mourning you
All the time, full-time that is, I am
But I am not sad as every moment
Passes, and I have all those great
Memories you gifted, you left me,
You bequeathed me. In them, I
Miss you, but I am not sad, not in
My widow's weeds as I might in
The tradition of mourning have
Expected to be, I am remembering
You. I am remembering us.
I am okay. I sleep.
This uttered in the
Middle of the night
Does not reassure
But perhaps affirms.
I am awake but I will
Find my way back to
Snoozing soon. This
Uttered in the middle
Of the night doesn't
Reassure but affirms.
I am okay. I sleep.
I slept. I did. This
Uttered in the light
Of dawn reassures
And confirms I am
Okay. I welcome the
Light, as the dark is
Fading, has faded. I
Am awake to the joy
Of a new day. I am
Okay and I miss him.
Who was I as all my years
Accumulated? The time is
Not a continuum. It breaks
Into small scenes, acts as
Distinct as if each were a
Life encompassed in 15
Minute skits, not all funny.
Many poignantly true to
Life. So much time passed,
Passes unnoticed, goes
Into a compartment, a
Memory perhaps not always
Remembered as it should
Be. I do know my last acts,
The 35 years I spent by your
Side are vivid, not blurred
By slippery recollections. I
Know who I am every moment
Of these years, the years
That are my longest acts,
Not broken into bits, solid
And happy in reminiscence
As they were in real time,
True to life.
I know nothing about love,
Its chemistry, its molecular
Substrata, I know only the
Feelings of joy that linger
In its shadow, in its aura, in
The smile, and in the soul.
I know nothing of its physics,
Its reasoning, its intricate
Deliberations. I know only
My joy at your touch, a joy
That lingered through the
Years when the physicality
Of love-making vanished as
If vaporized by the changes
In your mind and body. I know
That love stayed in your heart.
I know it remains in mine.
Is it possible that someone
More capable than I will bake
Or,
Take the recipe I share among
My friends to remaster, make
Again my mother's famous
Cake, the one we defrosted a
Year after her passing, and
Passed among our friends who
Gathered to witness the year
Anniversary of her death? The
Cake one of her many gifts
By which we could remember
Her then. The famous cake,
Made with a flour ground from
Nuts, walnuts but we, actually
She, substituted almonds to
Make the roulade and a rich
Sweet frosting, rich and sweet
As was she. A flourless cake
She baked before every high-
Minded pastry chef in our
County offered one up on a
Dessert menu that topped a
Pricey tasting menu, elegant
As was she.
The morning light entices me.
Is it later or earlier than I can
Ever anticipate it to be? This
Morning I am awakened by
It's early appearance.Shouldn't
I know if it is just dawning or if
It has been bright for hours or
If it is just first light? Shouldn't
I know just by the quality of the
Day as it peaks into my room
What time it really is?
Musical notes, so faint I
Thought I was dreaming,
The light, the music, form
A tapestry of sensations.
It is insistent and it is time
To get up to enjoy the day
That the light and sound
Promises
Tamara, really