Mvmt No. 4 (Cantabile)

Mvmt No. 4 (Cantabile)

The Tree Under Which We Grew Older

This one is a chartreuse…

It mellows in the springtime sun,

Casting its shade against the thawing ground

Which grows life into life, into fickle memories which stray

From the earthen soil that floundered under laden snow

Insects gather in each falling ray of light.

And what passing roots and dried-up tubers,

What sullied treesides, by the dells, glens, and by the roes

Which traipse through sodden tall-grasses

Will be remembered through turbulent

(Or not so)

years?

“Whips and scorns of time…?”

We could rest here, then.

We could stay awhile, take a much needed rest

In this hollow, this nesting and cavity which has

Been nestled in by–

(How many before us?)

How many have rested here? 

We are only a passing moment in this nurtured scene

We will forget this place,

And this place will forget these

Moments, where we spent a springtime growing into

The garden floor, the relic moor, the something 

That we spared time for, instead

When there was only strands of cherished lint in our pockets,

An acorn that was collected from the pathway beneath us,

Or the beads along the twine that broke when

We did not know our own strength

“Come in, under this shadow. Let me hold you until it’s late.”

But there would be a morning where

Sunlight would not shine through,

Break past the billowed clouds.

There would be a day, where we rise from our bed,

Stumble through things that were said

Or not said,

And that would be good enough.

It would be welcome, and mulled over

Like the water that weighs down the cloth

Which covers us,

Shields much from the harsh breeze, the things

That we would rather exist more leniently.

It will take from the day what it will, and we make do with what we keep.

Frequent were the nights,

Though there would be no moon

Suspended in her place in the sky,

Nor a breeze that would wander in through the window

Which lilted open, waiting for it–

Frequent were the nights where

We would fall asleep in an embrace,

Holding, facing the other, our foreheads pressed 

In that routine, the habit, the beautiful ritual

Where we take time to mingle and calm our chaos thoughts

Find that synchronicity–the place where our

Untrammeled adoration 

Blossoms under a genial sun

(Or no sun)

Hyacinth indigos which I place behind my ear

I keep my memories

Locked in their own kist.

I return to it each evening and 

Place the ones I cherish,

The ones I would carry with me, always

I take it then, and bury it neatly under that tree,

Carefully place the warming soil above it,

And press down the seeds which I plant to protect

The mind and recollections from

An eventual April rain

Leig dhomh do làmh a chumail, mo Gràdh

Let us roam through these memories, brought

To us through the places we forgot,

(Or not forgotten)

I wonder, then, if we both will return to the tree

The leaves which blessed us a mercy of shade,

Or the roots that clung to our sides, in a loving embrace

The feet we dangled over into the water,

Curious dace which travel in a single place

“Stay here, you needn’t do anything in this space.”

Or will we look over the water, 

see the boats covered in kaleidoscope lights?

Will we chance one last glancing sight at the sun,

Before it is snuffed by the hand which

Was the same before we rested at

The tree under which we grew older