Windsmith

Querida R____________,

There are snails here;

they let me make them.

And it is right that only children can see them.

They know how to pry up rocks, expose

raw earth, see what is there. They know

how to blanket the cornfields and greenful

lawns, study cut diamond skies, not quite

expecting the blue, the breathless, as the air

stirs to sizzle the leaves of trees.

Adults can see them too,

when they don’t look for them.

I stick to snails because they are my favorite,

and because I am just beginning to know.

The others have been here longer.

They got out years ago.

When I ask, they cannot tell me where

they come from, those past lives dizzying and blurred

like public restrooms churning with the caged air

of urine and ammonia. The cuts of air

they create here drift those memories

into the forgotten.

I am starting to forget.

I know soon it will become impossible to take you with me.

So I am sending you this: a wish

for you, one day, to look up from where you write.

Look to the open windows.

Watch the hushed white veils of curtains ebbing with the breeze.

And then,

step into the gasp of nature, head clear.

Look to where the birds catch pieces

of my creations under their wings,

and never expect snails.

1996?, revised 9.25.04

s.spachman