Poem

The lake was absolutely calm; a pool of light reflecting the sun as it slumped near the horizon. Soft breezes slipped through the screen door and into the large room, bouncing off its blue walls and making the new roses quiver in their vase on the table. Next to a green ceramic plate full of uneaten food three pages of paper sat, bobbing in the breeze and asking to be read once more by the man who sat, staring out the door at the water. The fifth time’s a charm, the pages rustled.

He ignored their request, drinking absently from a glass of iced tea before standing and remembering. Had it really been three years since they’d first met? Absolutely, and not nearly enough.  It had been raining then, beside a river during spring. He had been walking barefoot through the park, watching the way raindrops filled up the curve of new maple leaves before the weight tipped the new growth and let gravity take over again. There was a poem there in that little pooling and falling. He would have composed it in his mind and written it later if another hadn’t walked by.  A poem wearing a blue t-shirt and black gyms shorts, red hair curling and dripping and eyes smiling.

She glanced his way for a second longer than necessary then continued walking, perhaps surprised to see someone else out in the rain.  He had stood for several seconds, thinking about how many words it would take to capture that moment. The wind had gusted, blowing his hair in front of his eyes, and by the time he had pushed it back his legs were following her. She turned and stopped when she saw him following, watching his approach with a beautifully curious expression.

There had certainly been poetry written then, but never any that satisfied. It was the kind that touched at the edges and captured a bit of the color, but never any that took the whole of their passions down for memory. It was the kind of thing that would have changed people’s lives simply by reading if he had been able to put it onto page, but for the first time in his life words had fallen short. She had laughed that light laughter of hers when he expressed his frustration to her over a picnic eaten sitting in a tree near where they had first met. Plucking an autumn leaf from the branch above her, she balanced it on the palm of her hand, looking at him solemnly and saying that words weren’t everything in life. She blew lightly and the leaf lifted, joining its brethren on a slow flight groundward. He’d written a poem about the moment.   She’d read and said it was excellent.

Someday he would publish those poems, especially the ones she’d liked; the ones about nature and dissatisfaction and hope in the midst of pain.

He drained the last of the iced tea, picking up the plate and silverware and walking to the kitchen. The whole house smelled like summer all year round, except for her room, whose air was more like a forest, full of life and seriousness. Without looking he grabbed tinfoil from the drawer next to the stove and covered the plate, placing it in the refrigerator next to the other. He hated to eat alone.

All this smell of indoor summer was far too stuffy. He grabbed the letter from the table and slid the screen door back, leaving it open as he walked aimlessly down the path past a garden that hadn’t been tended for the last year. They had never really settled on whose job that was, so it had simply sat and gone to chaos.

The path lead him to where he hadn’t particularly intended to go; out onto the wooden dock where they had spread blankets and laid, staring at the stars on clear nights. During the winter they had walked out on the ice-covered the lake, built mountains of snow and sat there, whispering, simply because anything above a whisper seemed unholy. He had kissed her here for the first time, their legs dangling down in the cold water of a fall day. She hadn’t talked for nearly five minutes afterwards, just staring out over the lake at the shadows of the far shore. He had been terrified and about to beg her forgiveness, but she turned to him with warm eyes and moved closer, taking his hand in both of hers and resting her head on his shoulder. No words were needed.

He sat in that same place now, staring into the light of the far shore. Something like a glacier began to move in his chest, moving slowly, reshaping the landscape. Ten minutes passed, and the sun seemed to have stopped setting. Once again, he had no words. A particularly strong gust of wind swept from the far side of the lake and he watched as the glass of the lake became liquid once again, waving rivulets making their way towards him. The pages lying next to him were caught in the breeze, clinging for a moment to the rough wood then flicking upward, lingering as if deciding between land or sea, then spinning out over the water as they separated and went their own ways. Like they were meant to fly alone. The breeze faded, the pages floated for a breath or two, then spun and twisted their way down to rest on the water. In a matter of moments, they would be gone.  Love, water, and paper would dissolve together in time.

He watched the scene unfold with an odd sense of peace; feeling as if this was exactly how everything was supposed to end. Standing, he emptied his wallet, small notebook, and phone from his pocket, setting them on the dock. He pulled his shirt off and stood at the edge, feeling the summer evening cover his body and breathing deep. The sun had written its color on the water; both a final golden farewell and invitation all at once. There was a poem there, waiting for him. Another poem he didn’t have enough words for. But words weren’t everything in life.

He bent, flexing his leg muscles and drawing a deep breath. Launched, diving over the open water like he was meant to fly. Gravity took over and he curved, reveling in the way the air rushed across his skin, if only for a few seconds. The surface broke and golden water enveloped his body, cool and electric and alive. He kicked hard into a new world, opening his eyes and seeing new colors and new stories, striking off toward the end of a page.