The Madnesses: Writes of Spring

[WordWulf]

Dear Reader,


Looking into faces of choir
whose voices reach, pass us through
more each the crowd
tone upon tone upon tone
delicious...

The Madnesses:
Writes of Spring

Love. Ah yes, what else is there in the Spring... youth.. the bloom of youth on love’s face. A poet would name it so and never Summer, that lustiest season of all. The rebirth of all things cries out regeneration, reaching to the Sun, a smoldering fire.

A scent of lilacs in the city and country hay alfalfa are the stuff of sweet dreams, each purple shade an infancy of desire. Memories serve and quiet us not of a Springtime scent. First he wonders, will she speak; then, oh my, what will I say... through a dribble of drool sweet day.

She wonders at him, silly boy. Her hand longs to be held. She blushes for him in his state of stutters. He concentrates on the top of her head, her angel’s hair, ‘til his lips make her name. She is all flustered, then blushes a bit for herself. Her hand longs to be held, what else..

Nearby, robins danse, strutting red breasts apart, heads bobbing, eyes on eyes, ebon orbs rapt; a primordial wreath hung between them. White moths flutter in mist haloes above swaying blades of grass. Gardeners guard darling sprouts array. Bicycle Children stop to dap stones on still waters’ face. The voyeur falls off his bench.

Our soon lovers go each apart to their homes where true madness begins. His dinner untouched, an unprecedented event; mother cannot imagine what has caused his vacant-eyed and feverish mien. She has experienced these phenomena but never outside her personal sphere. She lies him down, an ice-pack on his forehead and wonders the matter.

Our girl is a-dither. She flits about, her wandering way a path butterflies might find cause to follow. Glass and mirrors give her pause, serve to verify what she saw in his eyes. Father sends her to her room, admonishes her to settle down, sits in his worry chair and wonders the matter.

These three have marked time, the girl and boy, and poet voyeur. By some fantastic coincidence, the very next day, they are found in their same places. The young couple walks, her woman-girl voice a merry verse to the poet. He is portly come stately, his stage-prop a cane which he twirls a couple of times as he meanders a wander to follow.

Her voice at once disarms the boy, challenges and forbids him. A Spring breeze plays tickle with his hairline beads of sweat. He thinks maybe he should ask her but there is no room between her chatter. For this he is both thankful and confused. He bites his tongue while his hand takes a mind of its own. It actually touches her fingers. She responds with a squeeze and the next thing you know.. they are walking hand-in-hand. This delicate, exotic, angel creature has, in a single gesture, answered every prayer, each and only, the wishes of his heart. They stop as our aged poet drops his cane and claps his hands. Eye to eye, the three are one, a primordial wreath hung between them. Our poet bends to pick up his cane, back complaining. By the time he is erect, they are moving, swaying together in the dapple shade of budding trees.

He finds a bench, a bit of shade for himself, squints his eyes, the more to see. They are face to face, hand to hand to hand to hand. She thinks, maybe a kiss, maybe a kiss my first. Our boy thinks the same, of course. Then realizes he has cut his tongue, a tiny bit of copper-warm blood, reassuring somehow. Will she come tomorrow, he asks. I have a walk each day, she confides. Me too, he smiles... same time? She is shocked to see herself so in his eyes, skips away. A flirting glance back, we’ll see.

Our poet watches them go their ways, then bends to the scrawls in his notebook. A chuckle of youth borrowed slips past his lips. His cane in the crook of an arm, there is an uncharacteristic spring in his step as he returns down the path. No need to wonder the matter. He smiles to himself, imagining the words, the end he will write to this piece, the sharing of lovers, his wonderful madness, its spiral web of time.

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© 2005 Thomas Paul {WordWulf} SternerHowe