A Poem
November 25, 2004
You Are
On a hot summer day,
you are the salt water to my hips,
and the approaching wave.
In the cool of November,
you are the last little pile of raked leaves.
At such moments,
I like to think I am
the perfect amount of room
in the waiting leaf bag.
Those who skate know the thrill
of being the first on the ice
after the Zamboni has finished its work.
The hard clean surface
under the glean of water.
That first stride onto the ice,
the skate edge catching exactly right.
You are that first stride.
And you are the perfect moments when I run.
The downward side of a long hill.
The deep filling breath.
The first glimpse of the finish line.
When night comes, you are, of course,
the first moment of our kiss,
our hands on each other’s hips.
And then you are uncomplicated sleepiness,
a soft pillow,
the sheets and blankets arranged just so.
When I rise in the morning,
you are the first sip
of cream-silkened coffee.
Back in our bedroom,
I study the curve of your bare hip.
You are the freshly sliced canteloupe,
and I am the ready spoon.
— Bill Trippe
Posted by Bill Trippe at November 25, 2004 10:39 AM
