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February 17th, 2023 (5th Iteration)
In Memory, Floyd Russell Taylor
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Since that day, my days have dimmed.
By the lookout, daybreak is gauzed by blinds, spliced by slats.
They hide the seat where once I sat
And foolishly hoped for the impossible.
Walking through the afternoon monsoon,
Searching for Oz, often, the rainbow flickers too quickly to gel.
Rather than fade, it fails.
As I watch, colors of the sunset weep into each other,
Until they bruise into a hell called night.
No moon in sight, I call your name.
Above it all, the constellations spin like roulettes,
Ruling our destinies randomly, indifferently.
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Today, I roam the rooms searching for your ghost,
For any sign of a poltergeist activity. None.
But, I notice the rising sun rise into the ornate mirror.
It is a reminder. On some February 17th far into the future,
My smile might rise to this occasion.
After the afternoon deluge my red umbrella glistens.
With a few quick flicks of my wrist, the dew of the monsoon
Transforms into a hundred, rainbow colored birds taking flight.
My mind is playing a trick. Is this the wink of a wizard?
Is he intent on inviting me into a tent on the way out of town?
I choose the sunset instead. It remains its melancholy self.
A dove alights above the casita’s ornamental gate. It coos,
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Before it sings! Who, where is this wizard making it sing?
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“Fog is a stealth on the dawn; rain greys the day;
Night is but a candle’s light.
Make of this what you will. For what do you wish?
To see, but with insight?
To burst in birthing a joy?
To bleed emotion into the night?
Aha! I see the gist of your soul.
You wish to sing the dawn into noon,
Sing the downfall of light until it is night.
So be it then. I be gone.”
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The spirit dove is wrong. On February 17th, I sing for thee alone,
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Even if that singing is a scratch:
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“Could even Jesus raise you from your dead?
Such distinguished company has a hold on you.
Tongue twisted, my words are mumbo jumbo.
Only abled, I wave no miraculous hand.
The power of this song? Don’t make me cough.”
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As if in response, above us, the roulettes stop their spinning.
Carefully, a constellation leans in for a closer look.
From its pointillist stars emerges a visage.
Is this the visage of a god? A goddess?
The eyes rule, and with majesty.
No, I am mistaken. Why…Russ…this is you!
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Steven Golden
February 10th to February 13th, 2025
Green Valley, AZ
stevengoldenpoetry 