I waited longer than I wanted to
for our sign to show up in the woods,
a sign we had agreed on, you and me,
on your death-bed of green linen tree leaves.
Exactly then, when I would think of you,
an owl was to appear and say the word.
Magic might be possible for lovers.
I waited. Then I thought of you so strong.
But there was silence when I said your name,
before I heard the caw above my head.
So like you to send me a crow instead,
a mile too far and minutes overdue.
Once more the mirror puts me in my place
while skin is trying hard to camouflage
what’s left of once my body now I age,
but see, I shall not rage, I shall not rage.
Never mind the hollow eyes that stare at me,
and follow me in bitter silenced spite
across the room, where clothes and blankets lie
about our love. The mirror tells me why.
Still, when you come at nights and find me here
regret me not, forget me not. Love me.
I shall not understand you and your choice,
as long a whisper will be in your voice.
He gave me some flowers that were taken
from a grave he just happened to pass by.
When I asked about it, he didn’t say why.
In return, I made him eggs and bacon.
He would eat spiders if that impressed me,
and said one day I’d make someone a good wife.
We were friends in that stage of my life
when spiders were such scary things to me.
He would dance on the stickiest dance floor
if that was what I liked to do, he would,
and ate the rubbish I served and called food,
he asked me afterwards if I had more.
I sometimes see him working on his farm.
He doesn’t dance no more, he wouldn’t harm,
or eat a spider if I asked him to.
One time he saw me and a moment long
I watched him dancing, smiling, heard our song,
and for a moment I was dancing too.
Every line in this story has a meaning to spot,
makes a new horizon in what it might say,
each skyline under a new leading,
each phrase gives more away
bringing questions, that
are heading for the plot.
I want to know the end of the story
but I don’t want to finish the book.
While thinking of you I came across shapes
never seen before, images in ice,
in clouds. As if all the world wanted me
to remember you in more than the truth.
But ice will melt and clouds will drift away.
Your memory won’t find me in the end.
Nothing of what we were about, will stay.
Like a captain on a ship that is about to sink
I see you standing in a mist,
and you have eyes that know.
I think your eyes matter the most. And hands.
The captain stays on board. All others go.
The sea takes all, and closes silently
over the wreck the ship is now.
I see you. The mist is getting dense, but there
you are, a last glimpse and I know you’re gone.
We both say a farewell. It is all done.
Maybe I should not stay in Winter nights
outside in silence, while everyone sleeps,
to linger long, watching the cobalt skies.
Maybe I should not try to understand.
Indoors is warmth and when the door is shut
I can pretend the world is just our house.
But here, in magic snow I’m more at home,
in Winter nights under the cobalt skies.
There are more questions in those Winter nights
than stars, and many shine, but why they do
will always stay a mystery, unsolved.
I stand under the cobalt sky and wait.
In the mist I try to find your hand,
before I lose you altogether.
This weather and your silence
intertwine, make me look
for beacons to hold on.
We hear the far away sound, whistles
of two passing ships, as their signals
echo in the grey. This mist
seems to be here to stay,
but your hand slips from mine.
When I am dead, please think of me once more,
not as the wife that faded into grey,
with eyes too tired, lips too thin to say
the farewell words I should have said before.
Once think of me the way I would have been
had I lived on, with you, and you stayed mine.
Once see me as our bodies intertwine.
When I am dead, picture me in this scene.
We had a choice and took the one we did,
it was the wrong one, I can now admit.
We didn’t know that. We just had enough.
But worry not about what we have done
or said, once I am dead. When I am gone.
It was so worth it to have known your love.
The ground so frozen can’t be soil
for more than burying cold hearts,
the ones of cruelest birds,
the magpies that we saw, that ate their own.
The cries of birds in blacks and whites
in nights where I can’t find you in my bed
under our covers, with those red roses on them,
those you liked, make me shiver.
You are outside now. I wait for Winter to move on.
Maybe I’ll find you under layers of snow.
This frozen land though will be melting soon,
and death will go.
I’ve touched your face before you went, I kissed your hand.
You have been dead to me before. Your breath came back
like smoke. It will come back again.
So much I have achieved. So much more than you know.
The frost is coming to its end.