.
if it were then
I’d be seated on the step
of the well house
gazing at peach buds,
seeing the tales they told
of waiting, swelling, being,
listening with the lake at my back
shining up the slope through woods
its surface sparking through a lattice
of oaks and strangling bittersweet
which climbed and throttled them
….. —if I turned
if I turned I’d hear joy,
the splash of swimmers
with arms like mine
unconsciously prime
no effort just ease
………………….. raw amplitudes
caught in the topology of pink folds
sprung from the sides of my head
like wings
….. and birds, of course, that sing;
species unknown to me then
just birds, robins at least,
the first I knew specifically
by their russet breasts
pointed out to me by dad
or mom may be
though now, by this time
that certainty’s as gone as the mist
that rose at sunrise from the lake
….. gone
all except the tender sense of it
the ache that clings like the lilac scent of the bush
not far from the well house at the corner of the drive
that stood its ground against the plow
which passed again and again
heaving its cold load upon it
at the curb
….. never say die
its blossoms summersang later
in the language of scent,
blossoms bundled like voices whose songs
rose from their bush of pied shadows
singing redolent chemical chansons for my nose
….. that day
….. that day
….. then
would have been
as young as this day, but
less weighted
less fraught
less freighted
less shadow-cast
I’d be seated on the well house step
inconsiderate of the future
and unperturbed by the past
Jim Culleny
7/28/17