Three Poems

"Language of Windows," "If I Had The Words," "Firehouse Fair"

I.
Language of Windows –

When I think of that house,
I see everything through windows.
The sun filtering through after
crashing first through the leaves,
like the coffee machine that 
sometimes overflowed.
The window screen like a net,
catching only dust and web,
the cranks and levers
rusty and stiff,
still up to their task,
and a quietness of heart
and a safety of mind
that only a large glass door
admitting the light over
a morning yard can suggest.
The star rising over the stables
beyond the property line,
long obscured by weeds and
the wreckage of trees.
They’re gone now – those windows.
Okay.
I still look through them, 
as I do through this page,
where I try (and fail) to live up to
the language of windows
spoken by an old house
where the doors too were open.

II.
If I Had the Words –

We played our game last night
at the local soccer field.
First one to score five goals wins.
You won as usual (did I let you?).
And then, you sat in the tree as I threw the ball
up for you to catch, over and over.
Don’t ask me why we do this,
we simply have to.
If I had the words, I would know how to describe
the sun’s light and position on the longest
day of the year.
I would have an adjective for every insect
that flittered and buzzed through the air
over the tall grass.
I would be able to measure with language
the distance between your feet and the ground,
getting shorter all the time,
as you hung in my arms on the way
back over the field.
Thankfully, I don’t have them.
I was there instead.
On the inside looking out.
I have never been so relieved to be a failure.

III.
Firehouse Fair –

At the firehouse fair, years ago,
when you were jumping around 
with the other kids
and I was having a beer
and thinking about Faulkner,
you came toward me
cradling your hand
with a pained look on your face.
You’d been stung, apparently,
though there was no sign 
of the culprit.
We left shortly after 
to apply some cream 
to the wound.
We never did find the stinger,
though if someone asked me now
I could say exactly where it is.
It is lodged somewhere deep down,
protruding from the brick lining
of a well, whose shaft is long and dark,
sticking out like a handle 
or the rung of a ladder
that I grip when I need something
to help me claw my way
back to the surface.