Penelope’s Song

For David

Twenty long years. I remember the damp November night
my small son bringing you into the house.
You, like an intricate telling of all the things
I'd ever longed for.
You stand in my doorway, slightly stooping
so as not to bump your head on the low lintel.

Targeted through time,
how could I even pause to ask or to consider. 
A future planned for me before my birth. 
Something to do with grasping eternity, 
holding it for a riotous moment –
how sweet, how fresh, how pure is this return.
No need to wait for spring. Here in deep winter grey
I see your face, I hear your voice. All grief seems
rubbed away, for a moment all flesh sings. And not
the dim tomorrows, the dull days of doubting
and ache of intricacies misunderstood – 
because your words rooted in worlds
so alien to mine – can ever nullify the ecstasies.

I must have known, seeing you first, shining Greek hero,
there might come Nemesis, penalty for too much happiness.
Not to aspire? We aimed to climb together 
the pinnacle of the city's highest dome
perch in the wind and laugh at all the world.
We did. We banqueted until replete,
battled on fragile boats until they burst
and we were forced to swim to reach the sand.

Twenty long years. Storms and quiet places,
war cries and lullabies.
Remarkably, we have become a song,
a story for grey winter nights.
Our son, a new Telemachus. Our daughters
stand on the shore and sing.

Der Winter ist aus. 

(November 2001/April 2011)