An Empty Bench

It’s unusually cool for this time of year. The air is crisp, and feels good as I breathe it in, heavy and deep. And though it is sharp, it comforts me somehow. It makes me dig into the realms of my own warmth for protection against the cold. I realize I am content, and that I have been content for some time now. This feeling is nice, like a certain happiness made only for me. I enjoy it when it comes. Its presence is soothing and comfortable. But like seasons come and go, so does my fragile contentment, and leaves a sort of emptiness that I don’t understand how to fill.

It never does go unnoticed, the particular change that pervades my consciousness like an odor that spreads through a room. Its presence is sharp at first, but slowly I accept it, slowly it becomes familiar, and slowly I forget what came before it. I always seem to remember eventually, though, as if I am meant to recall happier times and dwell in the discomfort of the present. Every change comes with uncertain worry. I cannot help but wonder if I’ll ever be content with my revelations, insignificant as they may be. They’re always subtle, but sure enough leave their mark somehow. Something always changes, and drags with it my reluctant will. I long for continuity. I want to know what it feels like.


The breeze picks up now and I turn my collar to shield my face from the icy air. The tree branches above me wrestle with the wind, shake and bend in violent turmoil. They, too, cannot feel the comforts of continuity, always reaching for something, growing towards it, aging all the while. But wind and rain and small children’s limbs never let them be. An acorn plummets to the ground, dislodged from its flimsy twig bearing and smacks the pavement with a soft snap. It rolls for a while into the middle of the sidewalk, into the traffic of runners and cyclists where it rocks back and forth in small semi-circles until it comes to rest.

My eyes follow it to where it lies and I notice a woman sitting across the way. The small acorn has caught her eye as well and she now looks up at me with a certain expression of childish wonder. I flash a sheepish smile on impulse, and she returns the same. Immediately her eyes shift back down to the acorn, as if our eye contact were something illegal. But I cannot fend off the peculiar interest I have in her. Her eyes are soft and forgiving, a brilliant shade of light blue that seems to shimmer. I’ve never seen eyes like that. And her hair, a modest gold, kept at bay by a simple stocking cap. She smiles again, giving life to her gently drooping lips.


No longer is she unwilling to look at me for more than a few seconds at a time, and now we sit, each alone on our respective benches, staring at each other with intense intrigue, as if to the other we both are something amazing, something we thought impossible. I think we both feel the same thing – the notion that this just feels right. But I know it’s not right. It cannot be right. Yet I have the strongest desire to stay forever on this bench, just staring at her without any idea why, and with no inhibitions about doing so.

She breaks her gaze and inside I cry out “Why? Why? Look at me once more!” The woman I know much better has approached me. She extends her hand and gently encourages me away from the bench.


“Are you ready to go, honey?” she asks, with the warm smile I’ve grown accustomed to. I don’t respond for a second or two, my gut clenched in regret, my brow bent as if to say, “I’m sorry”. I look up at her and nod without feeling, leaving the bench with difficult reluctance. My hand is damp with sweat as I take hers in mine, twirling my fingers softly around hers. The air has frozen the metal of her ring, and it stings my hand upon first touch. I look back at the bench on which that woman sat, but it is empty now, no longer in existence. Rather it was simply a fleeting moment of uncanny chance. Maybe it meant nothing.

Yet my only thought as we walk away is that one day my children or grandchildren will ask me just who is my true love, and I will not know how to give them the answer they expect.

A Rose Upon My Doorstep

I sought to step outside my door,
Escape the melancholy of this house
And find myself some happy news.

And at my feet I found a rose,
A gentle scent that filled my nose,
The vibrant red of
Patterned petals spiraling
Softly towards a crimson heart.

And I wondered whose rose this was,
This beautiful budding stem,
I looked around but only found,
The rose was just for me.

I picked it up, careful of its
Thrifty thorns and
I adored it so.
I wanted not to let it go,
I wanted to keep it safe
In my grasps,
I wanted to call it mine.

But I soon realized that
I would do it wrong,
For I have no vase to house it in,
No place to keep for so long.

So I let it go, threw it to the wind,
Freed it from my binding grip,
And as my tears did slowly drip
I watched it drift forever away.

Walk On

Distant destinations fill the mind
As I pursue the path on which I trot,
Once trodden by men much
Better than I will ever be.
I can feel their woe as my feet
Step over theirs, each step forming pairs,
Of old and new, now and then
Put together in momentary blend
Of earth and flesh, a dirty sole
Both theirs and mine.

And time becomes irrelevant,
I have no destination now,
Only a vague idea of how
I shall carry on my way,
To see the warmth of the day,
For the night is cold,
And I don't like it.
I do not.

But I suppose those men so long ago,
Those pioneers of purposeless land,
With pride in heart and empty hand,
They knew too, that each dawn
Only lasts so long,
That fiery stinging light must give
Way to pale, submissive white.

The journey never ends, it simply just repeats,
For though the city of a thousand streets
Ends the lonely man's woeful gait,
The discovery so desired by men
Always manages to dissipate,

Just there in the midst of his fickle fingertips.

The Long Way Home

An iced breeze delineates my body against the night

Ans I am a silhouette among silhouettes, moving

Shadow in a sacred stillness.

I feel calm enough to linger here

And take the long way home.

Columns splayed with dappled forms of ancient trees

Grown amongst thought. All knowing visages of an

Insurmountable strength, magnified by light.

Somehow I find a strength within

To take the long way home.

I'll wind through angular bends of lampposts as

I lift from within to remain on a length of air, suspended

Swaying through the night

I'll land wherever the unknown goes

So I'll take the long way home.

I am one among many,

But amongst the many I have won.

And I'll take the long way home.