Held Water

Held Water
Patrick Lane

I have discovered I cannot bear to be
with people anymore. Even the querulous love of old friends
defeats me and I turn away, my face staring
at the hard sleet
scraping at what little is left of the trees
in early spring. The bellied pods of the wisteria hold
my face, upside down
in minute mirrors of held water. Ice falls from the eaves.
The telephone rings and like a monk I chant to myself
the many names of whatever gods I can find
in the temple bells of the hidden voices. I know
under the rotting snow there are small flowers
like insistent girls giggling in narrow attic beds,
and yes,
I know the flowers are not girls, just as
I know what resemblance there is
is lost in the ordinary crying
we think we will release and don't.
The furred pods of the wisteria crack open
dropping the mirrors from their blue hands.
I ce slides from the roof and for a moment the air is torn.
If I wasn't afraid
I could play back the sounds of my friends,
the measure of their voices
almost steady in the hard wind out of the north.
Little flawed bells.
If I didn't hear them I could almost listen.


Sometimes this is exactly how I feel.

This poem is one of the ones that I have on my wall. I sincerely enjoy Patrick Lane's poetry, although I am relatively new to it and therefore can't give a comprehensive opinion. What I have read though is truly lovely. When I was flipping through my photos the other day I came across this one and my brain instantly paired it with this particular poem.