That Day

With wonder, I recall that day.
That moment in the mountains,
when everyone had left for lunch.
That moment the room grew quiet
save for the drumbeats
still fading on the air.
For the first time, it was just you and me.

I sank down to my knees beside your chair
--small and female and very pure.
Before we spoke, our eyes met
speaking of our souls.

You talked to me of promise;
and I was special.
We sat before a picture window
the creek ran outside
and colored branches brushed
the glass.
Outside it rained for the second
day steady: the road puddles and
miniature streams.
But inside, it was warm by the window
warm in the circle of our meeting.

And I began to read to you.

Your eyes fixed on a place just
above my head as you listened
to my voice, my words.
You sighed, and closed your eyes
smiling
as a crow cawed
without.

With wonder, I recall that day now,
a year later,
because in that same room last week
you barely met my eyes,
and we shared no poetry
or muffled laughter in empty spaces.

You walked the path with others
and sat at other dinner tables,
although there was a place next to me.

Did you abandon me because you saw
too much promise in our merging?
Did your need to protect yourself beat
out your spirit's desire
to explore those regions
beyond the round house
in the sky?

I wonder if you think of me sometimes
--yearn for our brief fingers' touch,
my songs to soothe
or my healing hands on your needy chest.

Perhaps I'll always wonder
and long
for the rain
outside bay windows
and lines of poetry
mixed with your sighs.

Go on to the next poem, Obstruction.

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All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997Š