Last evening in the park,
I stared at the bare shadows
of black tree branches against a deep sky.
It was blue hour,
not quite night-night,
6:30pm in early March.
The sky crowded with clouds,
dotted with the white lights of planes,
and textured with shadows.
I stay away from wars these days.
I like my arms too much.
I read Chaliapin's memoirs
until I began to snooze
and have visions of you.
We are flirting with each other
as spring flirts with our mornings
and time tantalizes our midnights.
Last night I was not lonely.
I felt “of the world” in a way I rarely do.
Suddenly, after a dreary winter,
the colors come back,
and I want to call you.
Each season brings new life,
yes,
but also marks the cessation of life.
It’s a painful truth, this poem points out,
the inherent grief of the passage of time.