Catching Up

I am going to read this poem at my wedding Saturday, as a sign of what will hopefully be ending after we marry.  I thought it might mean something to you, as well.

Catching Up

 

 

Soon, we will speak,

touching

each other

 

less

than the wide, dark, sun-edged wings of antiopas[i]

shift their willow catkins,

(which is not at all), 

less

than the movement of the heavy curtains,

not stirred by your sleeping child's breath,

less

than my pen touches

waiting stationery

with anticipated words

for you.

 

For twenty-three hours

our lives empty

of each other

and then with these words

we try to pour

back what was lost.

 

This is the day I saw foam flower

blooming on the hummocks

in the seven-acre swamp.  Leaves opened,

chartreuse and new.  The patter of raindrops

was steady, falling into my hair, over

my arms, filling my shoes. 

Tonight I will tell you of fields

puddled with rain, how the trees

moved through the pools

as if marching underwater,

restless, trembling with every step.

 

And you will tell me something,

something I have missed,

and didn't share with you,

something I will have to imagine

and release.

 

We will say Hug

but our bodies won't touch

and we will say kiss

but our lips won't meet.

 

Then, all night long,

we will walk, and keep walking,

through dreams,

through stars, turning,

one step, one night closer

to each other, as the moon,

waxing and waning at our windows,

transits

our separate beds.

 

 

 

 

 

Mary Stebbins

For Keith

060608a, 060606c

 

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[i] Antiopa is the species name of Morning Cloak (Mourning Cloak)

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