The Song on the Bridge Wall
Reprint I
Do we wait, who watch mountains Passing in the window of a car Who see the snow fall and melt Breathe cold as the sun must breathe In the depths of cold Heaven Patiently, as the rivers are patient Carving deep paths across The tired face of the land; Frozen and yet, as live as rivulets That push everything off the hills; Watching, as the old towns Who seem all too antique All too antique for life as we think Wink at us travelers, subtle As a colored curtain in a window Single in a well worn avenue; As gray as the slate of roofs That never die but still leak Did we find in her any proofs Of our central and certain conceit Did we find her in the wrong On the wrong side of history? Do we wait for the denouement Do we search for her gestalt In the tea leaves of old pavement In the bones of parched boughs Across the board of her industry Grown old for our novelties? Did we think we had seen it The climax and now resolution The action falls awaits conclusion But the snow moves in line Recoloring the ancient hills And the old city breathes deep Into the locked frozen river And the bridges moan in the cold day Under the sun in deep Heaven While we were waiting While anticipation gnawed us old And we pined away for hope We wonder if anyone was told What was written on the wall For we have forgotten What our story is at all.
Author’s note: This poem is perhaps a decade old. Regular new poems begin next week, by which time I should have some important answers.