a last walk;
this is my gift to you all, on my birthday |
grey is the way winter sits in the crotches of treelimbs, frozen maples and rock hard oaks, bent low, with snowy branches, reaching over the stone walls along the west side of the park. grey is every face, of every looming-granite-building stacked, stone slabs from deep in maine or vermont, hewn and dressed by men-from-the-old-country, where stone work was an art of muscled forearms, and sheer everyday beauty. speak, of early snapshots speak of lonely eyes and long , rainy afternoons speak in your own voice and take my hand and walk under old streetlights, through pools of light, with me grey is the breath of air, where feeble shafts of sunlight dare to rip open a lighter grey, and sleek, white marble women bend, gracefully, their smooth, curved backs sore, since long before they hung jesus grey is the somber, stone sea, where rodin's brown "Pensuer", puzzles longer than any man i know, over just-that long, lost moment, when he was trapped in stone. speak of first spring love, speak of long lingering looks and deep, museum afternoons speak in the tones of your heart and take my hand and walk through the graveyard, in the moonlight, with me grey narrow halls with flat grey walls lead beyond the cocktail party of stone, down undusted stairs and off into tombs, unlit rooms where the unfit pieces, the discarded art, are held. grey, here, is grey near to black thick grey slabs of walls, and thicker grey curtains, holding back flat placques of charcoal grey light, and greyer silence piled in every corner. speak of fitful dreams speak through grey eyes, nervous as a heron speak in the long pauses of bus-station goodbyes speak, if you dare and take my hand, and walk with me, one last time. |