Winter Sonata

I

Tonight’s forecast is not for snow,
And it was only weeks ago,
Or so it seems (though I know better)
When Moscow’s all-defining weather
Delivered what felt close to grace:
A sense of all-defining place.
And it was under Russian skies
I saw the “first light” of your eyes.

I cannot say that life has been
A pilgrimage, but then again,
Somehow, in reaching forty-four
I’ve found myself in Baltimore.
And it’s from there I write this down.
A pilgrim? More like Dylan’s clown,
The ragged one who ran behind
To learn the Tambourine Man’s mind.

I do still have the video
I captured six-plus years ago
Of going to meet you at the gate
(And you were 15 minutes late.)
You saw the camera, laughed and smiled,
And something in me was beguiled
And more than pleased to stay that way
Till opening mail the other day.

I know it shouldn’t have been a shock;
I’ve watched your eye upon the clock
For all these years, but thought that I
Could argue down the ticking sky.
And yes, I know it made no sense,
Was even an impertinence
To think I could presume to sway
A heart so set, time-zones away.

The mercury’s just dropped again;
The radio’s cagey as to when
The promised snow will first arrive
Or not. Off I-695
The light reverse-commuter line
Streams downtown past the Pepsi sign:
30 F. at 6:01—
The sky is clear, the day is run.

II

Once, in Michigan, I thought
The rhythms could be somehow fought
(Stealthily at least) that beat
To bring about lovers’ defeat.
Ocean, clock and sky they were:
The bigger-than-us that click and whirr
Silent and smug among their ken.
It seemed I could outsmart them then.

Wrong, of course: I’ve seen the proof.
I read my mail, stared past the roof
Of a far, domed church in winter dawn:
Day and pain were coming on
Hand-in-hand. No trace of snow,
That fixing symbol of long ago
When I first heard your soft heartbeat,
Appeared on any roof or street.

The Slough has landscapes of its own.
Beaches are good—I walked alone
Once along Ventura’s strand,
An afternoon in a changed land.
It had just happened (the first time):
Not only disinclined to rhyme,
But finding it much bigger than I,
I mutely faced the sea and sky.

More recently, November sand
Companioned sorrow as the hand
Of an icy wind blew all about
And emptied Coney Island out.
Hands in pockets, Charlie and I
Surveyed the bareness, hurried by,
And as he nodded to my speech,
We hiked down into Brighton Beach.

Language thickened as we went
Along the boardwalk, both intent
On finding ourselves someplace warm
To duck this late-November storm.
We passed two couples, then a third,
And as we walked, I caught a word,
And realized as the mist was clearing
That this was Russian I was hearing.

The circumstances weren’t the best;
To see those vendors was a test
(Though there was no way they could see)
Of my own equanimity.
You knew all this—then, we just shared,
Listened to each other, cared
And offered what the phone could manage,
Each assessing his own damage.

Item: I knew you’d gone through hell
With one who didn’t treat you well,
And so I sought (and this is true)
To drive a wedge between you two.
(I’d normally think someone a jerk
Who’d undertake such sleazy work,
But principles weren’t compromised;
You were you; him I despised.)

III

Last night, sometime while I was asleep,
Brightening light began to seep
Around the window shades. I woke
A good two hours before day broke,
And squinting at that violet glow,
Knew it could mean just one thing: snow.
And it was in a white-gray dawn
I went to put the coffee on.

But it’s an ent’racte, not much more:
Out beyond the western shore
Of where the continent ends, we hear
La Niña’s busy, year by year,
Making days like this a blink
You might forget if you didn’t think
To make a note—tonight’s full moon,
And all of this will vanish soon.

And so, for sixteen seasons, we
Remained as close as friends can be,
Keeping up a slight pretense,
Careful at first to avoid the fence
Between love’s smile and deeper frown,
Each attending his own round.
Then I came back to Europe, and
There you were, my cherished friend,

So close. One card was played upon
The next: in Prague, and then in Bonn,
We met, drew closer still, and then
Each had to return again
To the daily give-and-take.
But know this, love: I lay awake
For hours the night before your plane
Flew into Frankfurt in the rain.

Another was involved, I knew,
But clung to the proud hope that you
Might deal your cards to see the best
Course to take, and I’d pass that test.
Then you opened nature’s gate
To let that space decide your fate;
I heard an echo of Mozart’s laughter
When I read you’d gotten what you were after.

Six thousand miles from this pale light,
In Moscow, it’s already night.
The pillow that props up your face
Is how I conceive a holy place.
That morning in its brightest might
Should whisper hints of joy, I write
This Pros’chai in imagined snow,
To say what I suspect you know:

I couldn’t count the reasons why
I loved you, but be well. Goodbye.

January, 2000