Chapter 1 – Perhaps

The blankness

Of this page

Is lurid

I am a waterless well

My poetry leaves me for dry wit

Here in Finland.

Circa 1991

Perhaps I am not a poet, but a mere peasant in the field of loneliness. Plucking away at the fruit of my labors until my knuckles are calloused and bleeding. Only to rise and sell my harvest to the highest bidder or the most handsome man in the village for a simple compliment. Or a kiss. A kiss that would linger on my lips through sun quenched rainfall in the field, in the mud with only my bag of onions and a memory of you. The kiss you gave me as I left your bed that early morning in July. Your hands and mine entwined for a only a second in time. My tears still wash away the grime. The only rainbow I see ends not at the pot of gold but at your feet. And in your eyes I see the rain.

The rain that once caressed my cheeks to rinse away the stains. The rain that fell the night before I left you to drench that cotton dress and drip from my hair to your chest, heaving in wet delight. My feet are heavy with this field. I feel it hard to escape until I have dropped my baggage but it usually falls on my toes. So, I must carry my own weight. From the start your presence beside me on this road of life could not impair my perseverance. We are lovers individual and self-sufficient, sharing our lives as well as strife.

With your hand holding mine we can walk through the field. My other hand managing the weight of my harvest and your reaching for your own goals. Together the mud is not so deep and we both stand at the end of the rainbow grasping our dreams – separate yet infinitely bound by love.