SILENT GOODBYE TO AN OLD FRIEND AND MENTOR

Five years ago you asked me

to kindly get out of your house,

so I left your pretty little village home

filled with books and polished furniture.

I walked into the dark naked air, breathing

deeply, hearing the crunch

of your gravel under my feet,

while you closed the blue door behind me.

Little things can still make me tremble with joy,

and big things make me giddy with regret.

When your letter arrived, I listened

to the rain and the mist that divide us,

the fog, the ocean, the fantasy,

the fury and the thought that separate us;

I knew I had to keep their tune.

But I was afraid to lose

wounds and words that

your judgment would taint

in a straightjacket instant,

so I left your letter unread

under a pile of musky autumn leaves

in the park near the harbor.

Shadow, victim, image, mirror--

was I right to keep

my heart a hiding place,
an earth-scented cellar

where wild mushrooms

and translucent orchids flourish?

Was your letter a warm outstretched hand

or a closed fist, angry and frustrated?

Was it an old ceramic flask of oil and holy ink

or a cold square box with a funeral note?