07 January 2012 Recalled - fv

It seems I’ve rooted myself to some of the older poetic forms as I scan the list of poetry forms in my archive.  And the formality of my words is coming through, perhaps a bit too thick, so I thought I’d dust off one of my ‘other voices’, one which has been the driving force for three other ‘West Wind’ poems.  I think it’s time to revisit.  These poems tend to be a bit haunting, a bit nostalgic, and a bit melancholic.  

Oh yeah, and the song for the night is Sirenia’s ‘Save Me From Myself’.  

07 January 2012

Recalled - fv

Driftwood colored the window slats

clung to the door

and wormed the siding,

aging shadowed cobwebs,

catching dust,

catching two o’clock light;

a liquid pour

through missing panes

that spread the cracks

between the planks

that once creaked softly

beneath your bare feet.

Purple rhododendron grow

in the shadow of giant pines,

arching over the patched roof;

some slates have fallen in.

The rocking chair

on the front porch,

is long since covered in vines,

dreaming in wisteria

of yesterdays

when I still

could hear you call

my name;

I’ve missed you

and the nights are a hunger

that never leaves

The stony path

is a wandering trail

from the broken door,

 leading away,

down the mossy hill,

treading among branches,

behind which you’d watch,

catching  my breath

in the palm

of your kiss.

Dreams played percussion then,

delicate as the trillium––

white eyes of the forest

in spring.

Promise whispered,

lingered in your gentle laugh,

rippled the pond

hidden in the trees,

where the stone path

led us.

It was summer then,

always summer.

The fireplace is cold,

a dearth of embers

trying to recall

light limning your skin,

cradling the lines of your face,

furrowing the shadows

beneath your chin,

once leading

to deeper

secrets.

Have you forgotten me?

Where have you gone?

Winds have not changed;

those from the west,

still haunt the cottage,

remind me of the porch,

and the chair,

where you’d rock,

waiting,

patiently.

The echoes are held 

fervently,

undeniably

listening for the refrain,

the chorus of sound

that always let me know;

that seasons

never pass,

with you.