….
We Are Almost
We are almost near to where the winds blow,
Where to lust is hard, and to love easy,
By the gate of the garden where fates grow,
And look up—the watchtower is empty!
But I wonder whether or not the gate
Will open—given it’s so very late:
Whether if we knocked, we would be answered,
Whether what we have to say would be heard.
Yes, will it have been worth it? worth our while?
Certainly, I can say—I’ve been assured.
Do you remember how our star would glow
When we had lost our way in the valley?
That middle blue-black light that used to show,
Yes, I remember it—thought not clearly:
Metal wrecks of mountains, gloomy and great,
Seemed to float in it in spite of their weight;
Yes, we’d seen, or seemed to see, a bluebird,
For a moment, pay reverence—fly backward.
But that was far aback, many a mile.
And I don’t know where we or the winds go:
Whether they go to where they do to flee
Or whether there is a home I don’t know
Near or on the other side of the sea.
Yes, you and I are, as we were, wayward.
But don’t be upset: it’s not so absurd
That we two should make our way in this style:
Though we have lost our breath and have blundered.
Look, the garden is near; the sun is low;
There are the scents of flowers, of a tree
On the wind, whispering of faith and woe.
And though it’s very late now—can you see
Our father? Once, I saw him by the gate
With wild hair, and strange quiet: nothing stirred.
But then he looked at me, and gave a word,
Lovely to a little child in exile.
‘Heaped up stones that stand, noising seas that flow,
A honey-laden hive, a busy bee,
Sun-basking clouds, silvery banks of snow:
Yes, there’s all that, and there is you and me.’
We will wander all the hour and will wait.
…..
Fret Not is an invitation to see the wildwood of life in the half-light of a half-forgotten dusk. It begins with a stroll past the treeline, proceeds by way of encounters with various creatures, characters, and scenes, and ends with the twin laments of someone who has gone too far and someone who has not. It is the author’s childhood in brief.
Michael Shindler is a writer living in Washington, DC.
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