Early in the afternoon
on her way back
from the cafeteria
she spotted the back
of her five year old…
He had been
quietly crying
in the summer gold,
a bird flying
circling about…
She asked him why
and he replied
because he couldn’t fly.
He hadn’t the wings
of the one above…
Yet that incident aside,
The Orford music camp
had his mother’s and father’s pride,
had the delighted laughter,
the strength, the will
and great musical skill
of his parents, both thirty seven,
both wearing the summer landscape,
both heaven.
When the boy would tread
on the little path alongside
the two main buildings where students stayed,
the violin and piano played,
music coming from their rooms –
as he was swept up by the musical tide,
the boy felt his parents’ presence
spreading far and wide…
The pine needle and flower perfumes,
the pebbles strewn before him,
all objects of his seeing,
blazing grasses, stirred trees,
were extensions of their being.
When he’d make his way
across the parking lot
toward the building’s
white glare,
he knew they were already there
in the cafeteria…
The boy savored the smell
of the red carpet, wood inside,
walked upstairs where
the two centers of heaven far and wide
were seated for lunch,
their adoring students at their side,
the large arching windows
offering the view
of lawn chairs and the summer blue.
Evenings carried electric crickets,
the concert hall, a sea
of polished sounds, or as polished
as the students could make them be.
Evenings carried quiet conversations,
unwinding time at the bar.
Evenings watched some students outside
laughing, melting under stars,
melting as much within their ease
as in a path of tall entrancing trees.
Ten years later the boy would meet
his first love there,
his father’s violin student,
and tension in the air.
Her empathy one night –
not unlike some nights ten years before –
was taken for more…
And since that summer
he’d feel the need for more…
His father and mother
still held their place,
yet she and poetry
merged with one another,
as much summer as thick ice,
as much a source of wonder
as a sense that things as they were
did not suffice.
Summers hence
would see many a spark,
other loves – mixed with lust –
would see the dark
of disjointed and dubious deeds,
the emergence of weeds…
Summers would begin to see
the man
gaining depth and poetic mastery.
What may have seemed
at first impurity
was more than redeemed…
It proved to be
the other wing!
As a boy of five he cried,
unable to take wing.
Yet the man came to know
the luminous flight,
a height
such as his childhood bird couldn’t know.
When the boy and man embraced and merged,
he grew wings,
one wing feathered with childhood harmony,
the other feathered with love, love’s mark,
and dark…
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