Sunday, January 01, 2012

Melancholia and the Age of Varnish

The small car, the crash,
the back flip she did
on impact,
into the rear of a carraige
on a country road, where a
vague wave of red sadness
came over her
on that day in that year.

He pushed forward, more a follow through,
into water, dark, blue, without chill,
where he waited, shining, moonlit,
at the bottom of the lake.

He saw it as a problem to solve-
She saw nothing, just a feeling
of what happens.
Nothing in her life acted as a clue.

He lay in a deerbed of sea oats, hearing
the title of this poem in his head.
He walked along side her as she spoke
the words, "varnish a little coat of."

"Vanish was the new word," he thought,
at the bottom of the pond.  "Vanish
will be a wipe, an artificial moment
of doubt, the veneer on the next worry."

Down the path from the pond,
beyond the parked small car,
they lay together in a
small pine grove, listening
to trees trusting the wind.
In the distance great white
windmills articulated the
answer in sway that kept coming-
neither this way nor that-
just in arc.


Kathleen said...

Glad to see you starting the year off with a poem.

ron hardy said...

Thanks Kathleen

SarahJane said...

excellent, evocative poem. submit it, why not.

ron hardy said...

Thanks Sarah. Why yes, I shall.