Written On a Summer Evening Long Ago

A squirrel is just barking chuck, chuck, snort, chuck in the tree behind me. An odd bird tweets out a sound that to my worsening hearing sounds like water falling over rocks on a mountain's edge. The squirrel is hidden in the tree and I have no idea why or how I have aggravated him (or her).

These are enjoyable sounds. They are not television. They are not angry people. They are not coming from the artifices of humankind. They are of the world around me. 

After days of rain the grass is as green as it is ever going to get. Mosquitoes are starting to emerge. But it is 8:44 p.m. and there is plenty of light in the sky.

I have taken this moment to write. Over the past few days moments of real writing have been few and far between. On occasion as I walk, I will grab a snapshot of a interesting door or a goofy car and post that to Facebook. I will add a little commentary.  Facebook posts are not writing.  Facebook posts are like saying hello as you pass someone in the hallway. 

A walnut just wailed down upon the deck. Damn squirrels. 

In this golden afternoon/coming evening, I want to write about what is in my heart. But what is in my heart has been buried so deep for so many years I wonder if it still exists. A long time ago there was electricity that arced when I thought of ripe watermelon's scent and full red lips. A long time ago I could draw a picture of the naked form of the first woman I ever really loved from memory. But time spent burying those feelings has dulled the passion.

Life continues on and for some, passion will always be there. I think of artists and poets who work into their eighties and nineties.  Maturity was seen in those later works for sure, but the thread of red-hot passion never left the images. Poets as they grow older write poems that are more complex, but the raging heart is still at the core. I must recapture some of this lightning in a bottle. My hand must raise up into the sky daring the jolt to pass through me.

Are there regrets in living?

Of course there are, my dear.

But are the regrets so profound as to be unbearable?

Only if you make them so.

Only if you give them such weight.

 

And we must bear the weight of those lives 

That as the years have passed have attached themselves to ours

And from those entanglements there are no easy extrications.

And we must bear the weight of our hearts' desires, 

Of our passions not yet dead,

Of our dreams perceived only at the edges 

When we are closest to being awake in the late evening or early morning,

That bother us like a fever.

 

And we must bear the weight of frustration.

At not having more control,

At not having made things better,

At not reaching out and grabbing the golden apple 

That “they” have always told us we could do.

 

Are there any regrets?

Of course there are silly.

But if you think about these things

Your heart will lead you to where you must turn.

Regret comes with living but as long as you live

You can balance out regret with joy in action.