Oestrus

OESTRUS

In a field of sleeping thistles,
standing ankle deep
in wet amber leaves,
near the swollen swirl of the stream,
I glanced over at your studio
perched there
on stilts
like a tall brown heron,
saluting
the pale mossy sun that set
behind the thick slippery limbs
of the mother of maples.

In the half-lightI caught a glint off
of the chromatic curves
of your metal chimney,
towering
like a tall stack on a sturdy ship,
and I was greeted
by the trickle of creosote
dripping down
into the black flaming barrel
of your wood stove.

I stood there for a time,
quietly in the almost dark,
transfixed
by the moment's majesty;
marveling at how much alike
even our two Japanese cars were,
parked side by side
in the naked scotchbroom.

What a rare November's eve
we shared,
tumbling slow
on the heels of that last day
of Indian summer;
warm and clear,
yet nearly invisible
in the gathering ink,
standing very close
with me trying to visualize
your slender fingers pointing
to a constellation
that you remembered.

Even in the gloom,
I am not lost;
with your gentle guidance
I found first
a hidden door,
and then a hidden room
in some secret fold of my soul,
where before,
nothing had ever penetrated.
No phantom footprint.
No phantom breath.

Woman,
if you pursue this,
you will have me
believing
in magic and dreams
again.


Glenn Buttkus 1990