michaelafinch

I drift in the slowness of a dying day

my face turns to the winds,

carrying through the maples and mulberries,

of the sweet smell of primrose and sage,

Listening to bird song of warblers and meadowlarks,

watching rabbits, roadrunners to run,

fleeing the coyote calls in moonlit skies,

night closes and all surrounds into quietness folds.

The cool early spring breeze blown,

the scent of rain, closing in,

the darkening cumulus clouds,

low and rolling over the treeless low hills beyond.

The world spun fast, loosened in hastness speed,

alone, adrift and forlorn,

searching, something, anything to hold,

answers for timeless questions all naught.

Overwhelmed, worn thin and spent,

Into retreat all is given over to Him,

Closing of eyes into a breeze fills me,

To silence and calm envelop all.

When fear grows in me,

When freedom slips and liberty falls,

My mind takes me away, takes me far into the Plains,

north of the Platte, across the Missouri and into the deep,

fast as the winds could take me, past, into the way back.

Rushed and with foreboding all consuming,

pushed forward into hills of time, given over to time, before,

long before this moment of tragedy takes me

into the Dakotas and badlands, wheat high,

winds strong and true, when the breath of free men and liberty

flowed through our bodies strong.

At last, settled into an age long past, into those fields I go

to a small grove of spruce trees, wrapped around the creeks bend

shaded and shielded by a small rise, tall prairie grass,

soft meadow of brook run, given way to a weathered and solid cabin

south faced for that slimmer summer sun,

a flank of trees protective from winters blast of wind and fury.

To that grove and small plot I go, to rest in the shade,

smell the oceans of grasslands, feel the air of freedom and smile

of a memory that allowed me to exist in this moment.

This moment of a nation, a people that lived free,

lived in liberty so unique, so true, so brief.

Praise be to God for all of it, even if fleeting, fading and gone,

It was, in our time, glorious.

When love had flown, and forever gone,

A heart void and alone and tears run dry,

there you stood, across a room wide,

all fears faded into the warmth of a smile.

You came to me as of the wind, clear, pure,

all else gave way, parted and made way,

of your presence, I sensed everything, all of it in you,

as of a dream, come from another time.

Of a beauty deep and timeless held,

And your touch to cause deep stirring,

my senses rise in all that wonderment of you,

that this man craves like a parched man to rivers run.

Your beauty shined though to my soul,

your hand, like heaven touched that gave me life,

alight and alive, sweet and soft and sure,

from depths with a love longer than endless time.

You flow to me as a mountain born spring,

fresh from the high timber line run down to,

a meadow flush and soft you come to me as,

a waterfall, full rush, lit bright, your eyes sparkling alight.

Touch me a soft hand upon me one final time,

tear drop fall and nourish me,

in all my slumbered down and beaten days,

only you, through ages loved me so pure, so true.

Your supple soft curves, to touch and a scent of you,

come through and awaken my soul,

you roll back and open to me, a smile of welcome,

repose to my eager touch and kisses soft.

In the final run, smile upon me, your laugh,

your voice ring to me as we lay back and forget,

all else dimmed around and give way to,

a life beyond, into ages yet born, we shall rejoin.

A scent of fresh mint adrift in air,
fields northward bound blown,
All surrounded, chilled and fresh,
how much fresher can free air be,
all full of fragrance flown.

Come to me, faint as the windblown soft,

touch me gently, eyes upon me as yesterday is

forgotten not in this memories embrace.

Your fragrance comes over me, overwhelms,

consumes and I fall back into time vanished by,

barely a whisper you were, then gone.

Come to me one final time,

alone in this moment I hold.

There is a scene in the movie “The Straight Story”, at the very end, when Alvin and his brother, Lyle, are sitting on the narrow porch of Lyle’s small trailer. Hard to think of it as much of a porch, nor much of a trailer really. The trailer sits in a small clearing in the woods somewhere in western Wisconsin, close to the Mississippi River. It is mid-autumn and the leaves are past the point of brilliance, but still bright enough to catch your eye. The hills roll, in a gentle way, the beauty isn’t eye popping stunning, it is more of a relaxed peaceful slow pleasure, the ease of the north woods.

It has been many years since thoughts began of the time when I will spend my days sitting on a porch, whiling away the time, watching the leaves fall and the listening to the wind idly breeze through the tall branches, the scent of dried grass, fall leaves and wood smoke from farms down river. I yearn for it, convinced of the soon to be day when my eyes close and I feel the hint of winter against my face and sip on that blessed first morning coffee as the sun starts its short and slanted path along the southern sky.

It remains unknown of were my porch lies, it is but a dream being chased, the outstretched fantasies of youth that wrap into mid life that so often die in the vanishing years of age that sweeps down on us in a sudden and hauntingly quiet veil over our dying days. But we always yearn and promise ourselves of that faraway dream; after all, what all else is there to keep us.

It is simple dream, a simple house with a creaking wooden, falling sloped down porch, early rise of the scent of morning salted pork bacon through the open window and a fading dew, promise of a brilliant azure deep rich sky of a waning fall. To sit and think and listen, to nothing more than listen to thoughts and the world and nature, to count the time at God’s pace.

Someday soon I will start out on my journey to a faraway bend, down road to hillside and creek run, modest house and that simple porch of wood view and sky tall. Where will you all go in your dreams fulfilled?