Only three people
in the wide world
know,
really know
what this image means.
Its context.
Its weight.
Its power.
Narrowing,
Funnelling,
Penned down into a chute,
that, unless I share it,
no one will remember.
No one will remember.
Secrets You Need to Share
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wait for me
I’m pulling strands
this morning, the
clock’s hands cry
out in complaint
Wait for me, I say,
the light has captured
the flower on the
table
wait for me
but I won’t remember
unless I remember
and even then,
it’s most likely gone
forever
I am as transient
as words on the wall,
just graffiti waiting
for wash
wait for me
— Kevin (who doesn’t even know now what I was trying to get at it but I got at it good)
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I have a response, pure response, audience of one or none: https://tellio.substack.com/p/wait-for-me
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saw it in an email …
🙂
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jumping to twitter
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I used Inoreader and saw your “Wait for Me” post.
I read, then re-read, looking for meaning.
Then clicked to this post, and saw Kevin’s poem.
Now the first makes more sense to me, or less.
That image looks like the top of
a baby grand piano, to me.
Brand name “Lion”
Learn to play: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjMerG3qm9I
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Thanks for the vid, Dan.
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The main point of the poem and photo is this: almost all the artifacts of our lives are limited to a very few folk. I specifically kept the context of the daffodil secret. And as such no one will remember it because without context there are no anchors to memory. Here is some context: grandbaby is easy, grandbaby lion refers to her name–Caroline, but I call her my Caro-lion. When I ask her to roar she obliges her grandparents with a breathy, private roar. This daffodil was one of the earliest we picked on one of her visits. It survived being held for a solid hour as we toured the farm. This daffodil photo was taken after she left for the day and reminds me of our time together.
The three people (me, my son, my wife) held a secret, a small one, but a secret nonetheless. It is a forgettable one unless we try to freeze it in time and space with words or pixels or conversation. Hell, even if we try to memorialize it. There is another secret poem in the margins in response to Kevin’s. Layers. Onions. Tree rings. Secrets inside of secrets.