It needs humidity, dampness of rain
or sweat—the residue of troubled dreams,
the ones that wake you shivering and don’t
quite dissipate, but populate the morning:
I’m at the wheel of my old Chevy when
I notice her waiting in the rain to cross,
a youngish woman still as I was when
I’d over-stepped, although it seemed invited.
Because the light’s so dim and it’s a dream
I could ignore her. Yet I want to make
connection and try catching her glance. I rap
on the window till the glass shatters and severs
her from a chorus of pedestrians.
Interpretations may seem obvious,
although atonement is too much to ask
and dreams may be a proxy for remorse.
Part of a self endures in shadowed places.
Perhaps that’s why I seek an openness,
inhaling light, holding new scents in my arms,
listening for gestures carried by the wind.
Just yesterday I strolled the arboretum
and picked crocuses. Their infant yellows seized
my hopelessness and even gave sly comfort,
despite premonitions that these harbingers
will, in days, brown and wither. Guilt requires
just a drop of intimation to revert.
Yet I resolve to get on with my day
as she looks up, refusing to wave back.
Brian Michael Barbeito (photo) is a Canadian writer, poet and photographer. Recent work appears at Fiction International from San Diego State University, CV2 The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing, and at Catch and Release-The Columbia Journal of Arts and Literature. Brian is the author of Chalk Lines (Fowl Pox Press, 2013, cover art by Virgil Kay). He is currently at work on the written and visual nature narrative titled Pastoral Mosaics, Journeys through Landscapes Rural. http://hyacinth-wildflower.blogspot.ca/