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Array
(
[sid] => 159770
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => For Anna (Maintain Discipline)
[time] => 2010-05-11 20:18:28
[hometext] => always, abraham
[bodytext] => It was October, and the trees fussed and fought all around us. Their leaves tangling together, forming dense shadow, allowing little light to cross beyond their vast canopies—beyond their spiraling black towers trimmed with burgundy and gold—beyond the beveled fields casting memories of childhood fields—beyond the vast canopies rising in spite of wars and battles without end. The trees were beautiful, an uncompromising salute to the stars or the absence of the stars, and to the sun and moon a violent flail between the streaks of smoke and rain—never wavering, never falling into dread retreat—standing loftily above and around us as we advanced upon the escarpment of our enemies. Anna, beneath these coiling pillars of dust, beneath this brave charge, this endless cry of battle, I am afraid. Even in my fear, my heart wanders to another time, where in the recklessness of youth I imagined myself a fearless warrior, a great soldier. I was a fool, Anna. For leaving you behind, for turning my back—how you gaped at me as I held you, how you cooed and smiled, wriggled and sighed—you will understand one day, I thought, Anna you will see. It has been forty-five years Anna, I am an old man now, with trembling hands and a heart with little left but regret, beating in the silence of the things that could have been. On quiet nights, I have taken to looking at the only photo I have of you, to watch the world crumble and grow across the surface of your face, watch time both sweep away the dusk of bitter tears and darken your heart, wrenching from you, your specters and dreams, your emperies of love. In you, I see the world I left behind—before the rise of a million screams broken and scattered across the sky, before the stains of war denied me. In you, I see the shadows that your stature hides, the myriad unseeing eyes that I have left behind. In my hands, your shadow drips from conclaves of rhododendron, begin to curl, and recede into the foundation of a white sky swathed in thoughts of thunder fall and rain. Forty-five years and I am nothing to you now. A turbid figure spent by the intricacies of age, grown small by the incentives of new experience. In my dreams, you are still beautiful, still indefinable for the words of a still older voice. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 120 [topic] => 24 [informant] => iodinelove [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => LoveRemembered )
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