05-05-2015, 12:12 AM
Paul did not marry until he was forty. He was a crow,
feet nearly at his eyes, bald, a poem composed
of overweight lines. A barrister, a barrister. Always
with this sad feeling of autumn that he did not belong
with normal people.
Natalie was only a fragment of his life, but she was
enough, a declension of soft birds wired against flight.
And he married her.
Often Paul would tell me life seemed so mysterious to him
now than when he started, more a massunderstanding,
but there was enough heaven here for him to stay.
At least for awhile.
Yesterday, Paul called to tell me Natalie was dying,
that how we exist is only a fiber of something much larger,
spiraling out of control to one tiny pinpoint of light
right before our eyes, some kind of pendulum rocking
a thousand miles away.
While we were talking on the phone, my face turned
to look out my rear kitchen window. The taller ash trees
across the greening field reminded me of how
much less I should say since none of the words
made any sense to any of us: Paul, Death, or me.
And Natalie? She wasn’t even listening.
Edit #1
Til' Death Do Them Part
Paul did not marry until he was forty. He was a bald crow,
a poem composed of overweight lines: a barrister,
a barrister, a Sergeant of the Law with this sad feeling
of autumn that he did not belong with normal people.
Natalie was only a fragment of his life, a declension
of a soft bird wired against flight. And he married her.
Often Paul would tell me life seemed mysterious
after marrying her, but finally there was enough heaven
on earth for him to stay.
When Paul called to tell me Natalie was dying,
that how we exist is only a fiber of something
much larger, spiraling to one tiny pinpoint of light,
some kind of pendulum rocking a thousand miles away,
my face turned to look out my rear kitchen window.
The ash trees across the spring field reminded me
of how much less I should say since none of my words
made any sense to any of them: Paul, Natalie, or Death.
Natalie died last Thursday. She leaves no more ripples
on this surface of the world than a calm day.
Paul can no longer ask her how long they can be together;
how long can they hold their breath and wish for another day.
feet nearly at his eyes, bald, a poem composed
of overweight lines. A barrister, a barrister. Always
with this sad feeling of autumn that he did not belong
with normal people.
Natalie was only a fragment of his life, but she was
enough, a declension of soft birds wired against flight.
And he married her.
Often Paul would tell me life seemed so mysterious to him
now than when he started, more a massunderstanding,
but there was enough heaven here for him to stay.
At least for awhile.
Yesterday, Paul called to tell me Natalie was dying,
that how we exist is only a fiber of something much larger,
spiraling out of control to one tiny pinpoint of light
right before our eyes, some kind of pendulum rocking
a thousand miles away.
While we were talking on the phone, my face turned
to look out my rear kitchen window. The taller ash trees
across the greening field reminded me of how
much less I should say since none of the words
made any sense to any of us: Paul, Death, or me.
And Natalie? She wasn’t even listening.
Edit #1
Til' Death Do Them Part
Paul did not marry until he was forty. He was a bald crow,
a poem composed of overweight lines: a barrister,
a barrister, a Sergeant of the Law with this sad feeling
of autumn that he did not belong with normal people.
Natalie was only a fragment of his life, a declension
of a soft bird wired against flight. And he married her.
Often Paul would tell me life seemed mysterious
after marrying her, but finally there was enough heaven
on earth for him to stay.
When Paul called to tell me Natalie was dying,
that how we exist is only a fiber of something
much larger, spiraling to one tiny pinpoint of light,
some kind of pendulum rocking a thousand miles away,
my face turned to look out my rear kitchen window.
The ash trees across the spring field reminded me
of how much less I should say since none of my words
made any sense to any of them: Paul, Natalie, or Death.
Natalie died last Thursday. She leaves no more ripples
on this surface of the world than a calm day.
Paul can no longer ask her how long they can be together;
how long can they hold their breath and wish for another day.