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Show I GORDON SORENSEN I've found the world in this town and people, Learning to love best the twilight in the spring. The thin smoked haziness of the clouds Against the blue shield of the sky After the sun's gone down. There was a time in the city when I loved everything, A time when I would sit in the park And weave long chains of dandelions For a girl who lay on the cool grass, And her dark eyes would reflect The Fleeting motion of the flossy threads of clouds Across the sky. Spring in the city has changed now. Today as I walked through the park it was raining, The dandelions had twisted their heads into tight scrolls. I sat for a while on a bench in the pavillion, Crouching in my wet coat like a small bird, Listening to the rain splash on the roof And cascade like childrens laughter into large puddles. It was then I lit a cigarette because I felt cold I exhaled the smoke and watched it drift away. It was lost in a moment and what I saw Was only empty swings and monkey bars. That night I lay in my bed for a long time not sleeping, Listening to the earth as it leached away the rain. I was angry because I didn't have anything more to give Than love, and dandelions. In the morning, when I awoke, I realized for the first time In order for some people to love They must hate. 38 II GORDON SORENSEN I drank my coffee While the sun set And listened for the birds To stop, And waited, For the air to cool, For the people on the block To rid themselves of the day. Their neat stacks of lawn clippings Haunt their curbs. Their trash cans Guard paths to houses, And their children, More advanced in summer cultry, Appear along the street, A spark at a time, As they put on their lights, Among the hedgerows, And troop through the hollyhocks, Whose pink blossoms Glare like flesh In their beamed light. They come, All at once, In a crowd of holy night whisperings. The arc light shows their gay heads, Before they cross to darker shadows, In my yard. The wind stirring their hair, Like flaxen waves of foxtails In the night. The shadows know them, Enveloping their small forms. Until the rites start In the dark, Beneath the weeping willow. Their lights come on. Stooping, the harvesters Pick the round, large worms, That show in the light, Like their small brown fingers. And their eyes show real And unafraid. July 10, 1968 39 |
