Proximity (Feb. 2, 2005)

I know I'm close to you
when the surf is high
yet far, its drone piped
from a distant drowse
which floats into pure blue.
Driving home last night
wrecked by the difficulty
of my day -- ferrying,
if you will, a hundred
wounded cares --
I popped in Lyle Mays'
Solo CD, jumping to
"Let Me Count the Ways,"
which for 3 minutes
pilots your infinity,
pouring sweetness and
grief from a piano's
jazz into my broken
brow and hull, letting
go the flood that's
always just below.
I thought of my wife
at home hard at work
at her sewing machine,
embroidering bed linens
of a dream we make
together, waking (at
least on weekend)
wrapped in the cool
blue wash of first light
amid the antique and
clean whites and
pale fern greens of
the bedroom she and
love both made.
That gentle so
gorgeous jazz filled
my ear as I drove
back to home shores,
traffic knotted with
fretful tail lights
and the sky at that
hour of the season
another seam for you,
the last blues ebbing
into black with the
first stars burning through.
For the duration of that
song my work day was
simply the cross you
came and lifted me
from. its difficulty
like a rock hard pounded
by the sea, the stinging
mist arising from
the mash angelic
and deep blue, singing
hosannas of soul sweetness
surely sent from every
depth of you, though
only the music is what
endures till all my
hearts have drowned.
How good it was to
get home at last, pulling
in the driveway with
you in the kitchen
making dinner & the
lights bright in nearly
every room, the dark
outside a rich wild
velvet in which love
so gemlike harps
its gleaming distant tune.