Of the heres and theres of friends

Hardly a poem - I'd call it a draft if I thought I could improve it - but there are ideas in it I like. Not about real people, either, though a few characteristics are affectionately borrowed.


Today, my friend with the red hair, and I
Sat in the meadow and made wreaths of the daisies
I had an old Polaroid
And I made a copy of her
Very small, but standing there contentedly in the sun
Head tilted down a little
Eyes laughing up at the camera

Sometimes she tells me her dreams,
Her night dreams,
Strange, beautiful fancies from her unconscious mind
A preoccupation with water,
And an empathy so strong
That disembodied,
She passes into everything
Or she tells me sometimes,
How colors and numbers flow together
In close association in her thoughts,
And then we laugh,
And our conversation passes on to other things
The things we love,
And the things we mean to live for,
The ideas we have about the world
Which unfold themselves in our heads.

In my thoughts, today,
I remembered myself as a little child
I remembered myself tying up a bunch of flowers
To give to a friend, uncertainly
When I thought about this
I understood something about my friend with the red hair;
I’ve always wanted to be friends with someone like her
And never have till now.
I wish I could love her like that
Like a friend I’ve always wanted to know
But strangely I find
That there is no place in my heart
Like that for her

*

Yesterday, in the morning,
I saw your face in a crowd.
You were with friends like yourself
And you seemed happy with them
You saw me, and the corner of your mouth moved
But beyond that, no recognition,
You forgot me as soon as your eyes moved on.

In the evening, yesterday,
Like most evenings,
My feet took me out looking for you,
Knowing the while, I wouldn’t find you.
I went like I so often do,
To our old place by the cemetery,
Where we’d hide out the nights together.
Last night drew my wandering
To our nest in the trees,
Where now dry leaves blow.
I lit a candle from my coat pocket,
And green-white moths fluttered around.
Watching I wondered
If you would smile to see them.
I thought about you then
And how you surprised me;
How you were strange and different
But beautiful and like nothing at all
That I could have ever thought of knowing.
I almost laid down there
Like we did when we were together
To see the stars through the trees
But I turned away home.
It is cold there by the cemetery,
Without your body to warm me.

*

On another day, perhaps,
I will be barefooted
With my friend with the red hair
And our bikes will lay fallen over in the grass.
Maybe we will sit,
And talk wistfully of things
My thoughts straying, the while, to you.
Or perhaps by some gift of freedom
My feet will have forgotten their search
And there will be nothing else for me
But to run with my friend and be free