A Summer Longing, past yet present

My Mom would be

the first to tell 

you 

that I am being 

overdramatic.

That 91 kilometres

is only 

56.488 miles.

And that the breadth

of his kiss

(and kindness)

should carry 

me

from here 

to there.

(easily)

But when tonight

I opened

the door into

darkness

yet again,

I wondered how far

I felt

from being alone,

or rather,

how close. 

I wanted just to

be held, as

we do.

Tight, tight.

For a bit of reassurance

on a certain midnight

that tomorrow

would, most likely,

be 

better. 

It’s nothing, I know

it is less than anything

in complaints, merited.

So I will be 

quiet

with my wishes.

I won’t tell you

or anyone,

least of all, him

how very 

much

I would have liked

that he could

have

somehow been

here

then, as in, now.

(me tied to 

him and him 

to me,

arms and legs jumbled,

sleeping peacefully.)

*****

A new poem. Missing my sweetheart and Arles. These photos are from a recent visit where I was fixed on seeing what has remained instead of changed. Yes, I am not only dramatic, but a nostalgic girl as well.

With much Love,

Heather

Me, retrieved

I have realised something

well, important.


That since 
COVID

my comfort zone

has become

my non-comfort 

zone.

I have adapted

to what did not feel 

right.

I hid,

so I hide,

I lived,

so I lied

to lead myself

to a place 

that asks 

no hard questions.


Now, now

is the time to

get out of 

that here, no

longer hearing of

my feelings,

of my voice.

What is left of the

me that sings

loudly, or

used to.

That makes

bad jokes that do

not translate

easily into

anyone’s French.


May my lips

feel the kiss

may I laugh wholly

or with a holy

kind of grace.

For I prayed yesterday.

I did. 


And maybe,

who knows,

it was also for a l

ittle bit of me

to be –

with some forgotten

confidence –

retrieved. 

Hear the stones listening

I can hear the stones

Listening, sometimes.

Old gold yet youthful at the

pulse,

Engaged and curious.

How they grasp

At the people and

Seasons passing

at a furious clip.

Dizzy

in emotion

yet they

play with inert alert.

The opposite of

certain brethren

Who sleep deeply,

Exhausted with forgotteness.

I whisper “thank you’s”

Of gratitude to

Them both for

Even when Broken or

Brazen,

In their seeming solidity,

everything, everything

seems to swing

Towards the possible

Once again.

 

From one letter to another

“You have received a letter”
 
It is crisply folded
and neatly signed. 
The black stamp type
more official than God.
 
It is an end
that I have been waiting
to fall, this declaration,
since years. 
 
As quickly as I have scanned it,
I am checking
my reaction.
Emotional or coldly rational,
pain-filled probably
and yet…surprisingly
No.
 
Time is time
is time as
everyone promised.
 
I trace the letter V
with my pinky finger,
flying it into a wing. 
 
“Goodbye
once Love.
I let you flow on
like the river,”
In order to have
this invitation –
accepted – 
to sing. 
 

A letter received, a hot shower taken followed by a walk along the Rhône amidst a howling wind. I stopped and said a sort of prayer to the water.

On we go.

As always, I am so grateful for your being here, whether I write poems or tourist tomes, I rely on you. 

Bisous.
Be safe, be smart, be kind, be well.

Heather 

As Summer slipped by

As Summer slipped by
I sat in my room and
thought.
My arm was heavy in
my lap, my right
wrist broken.
The heat didn’t help.
“Do they even still make casts like that anymore?”
my Mom would ask.
I didn’t know what to reply,
having had no experience with
broken bones before,
only one severely ravaged heart.

As Summer slipped by
all I wanted to do was write.
Slate out the feelings and
the lingering hurt.
Ironic, then, that I could not
beyond a one finger jab
of a type that eased nothing,
only reminded;
at night I would lie
awake with the ceiling
rolling out poems that
would fall into fluff by
morning.

It felt like I was responsible for this Summer gone by
and nothing earned, no joy for winter
stockpiled
no rabid dips into the sea.

Then arrived a long-awaited
Monday in Nîmes to finally pick up
the plastic card that lets
me be an expat, an outsider
Provençale.
Hungry and celebratory,
I gathered up all of the textures with
my one good arm. Yet it
exhausted me. The exhilaration
no match for quotidian physicality.

So back to my room I went,
trailing bits of Summer like
crumbs from last years picnic.
The taste of what never
realised a too bland almost,
memories to be had.

Those who said that they would
stop by or take me shopping,
didn’t.
Which meant it was an expedition
to be invited to a lunch, delicious
save that, wine in,
forceful words
were launched (albeit with good
intentions) by someone
who
had once meant the entire world to me.

Shocked and angry, I pulled back yet again.

As Summer slipped by, it often
felt like another COVID lockdown
with far too much room to question
things like,
“Is he right?”
I would ask such
things out loud.
The ceiling was usually silent.

But the Time did pass, did
what it needed to
and so last Friday, with the work
of a whirring saw, my cast
was broken open.
The skin underneath it was slightly yellow,
the hairs on my forearm like
prairie grass.
All,
all things unattended to,
a physical translation of his voiced
disappointments.

Despite my nervous over-chatting
in that surgical
office, bright as the sun,
I couldn’t help but delight
in a tentative wrist wiggle, to remember
the much that such freedom brings.

Yesterday, I made one last stab at Summer.

Officially, it had gone
but nonetheless I tried.
Sitting on the oldest stone
steps of a familiar church –
ones worn down in the middle
from those seeking faith –
I held a cup
of sorbet. Three flavours.
Savouring, I watched the last of the tourists
gaggle at that which they knew nothing about;
yet how they had the right to be just there,
just like that.
It is what we all do, really, I understand.
My thoughts bustled up amongst
the leaves of the trees and those claims
of his that had hurt
were clamped
down by the coldness on my tongue.

“I still have beauty, despite weight gained
inside and outwards.
I also have much to give that has been buried
in everyday struggle. If I am not arriving as
I once did, I am trying.”

And then, all of those ideas became quiet
like a benediction.
With a whispering joy
this season of perpetual promise arrived.
Summer was finally in me.

If you would like to hear my voice recording of this poem, please click above.

I hope that you are all well. Finding the diamonds amidst the rough.

As always, I am sending much Love from Provence,

Heather

Ps. I hope that you will forgive me for not responding to all of your lovely comments on my previous post. They made me so happy and touched me enormously. Hopefully with physical therapy started, it will eventually get easier to type! 

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