066 - Eveningness
Today, I have my father, mother and sister at home with me, it wasn’t so last Sunday, it won’t be so the next; this reminded me of a poem I tried writing three Februarys ago that I named February in an Evening. Some personal exigencies have come in the way of this evening’s Daak. So I send you that poem instead.
February in an Evening
A woman comes dancing, all I see are her feet. She expects my eyes to lie on hers. If she catches my eye, she might yet see a question. Who am I to make these assumptions. A hum gathers like a cloud in this room. Beyond its window walks a woman. On her hand hangs a leash and on the leash no dog. If she catches my eye, she might yet see a question. The evening sun is ravenous. The evening breeze is mellow. I am hidden from both. Invisible eyes peer into me, they talk to my shadow. If she catches my eye, she might yet see a question. // In a house on a golden hill with silver tress shrouding. A mother bakes a peluma. Her son anxious is playing with their dog a mile away. The sun hints at a time and he runs. The dog apace behind. He feels the wind in his face. A song breaks into his heart and settles and seeps, becomes river, runs through his veins. He crashes in through the door. The evening light melts over the dinner table. A man sells the last of his strawberries and peaches. Two girls hug, kiss goodbye, leave. A sparrow invites the tree into its just-done nest. A flower decides to bloom come dawn. Admiring, a piano man looks at his song piece of paper. A woman hangs up the phone smiling, her finger graces its spine. A father braids the hair. A pen lets go of the last of its ink. This well is full. /// In an oakwood forest runs a stream over rocks. Those rocks, shy, hide behind the moss. There are birds in the branches one cannot see. A poet with a hat over his head lies on the grass by a tree. A pair of feet arrives at the corner of his eye and he wakes to see. If she catches my eye, she might yet see a question.