Patina
--for Carlos
In my humble house of unstudied solitude
I lie down at night on the inevitable spare bed
to sleep in faraway imaginary arms.
At dawn I pray for the impermanence of love,
for the clean way things rust and fade
for the modest advancing light of winter
that seeps through the Cappuccino shades
and finds me before the fire on my knees
begging the gods to bless us with longevity,
serenity, a blessed place with time to meditate
on the bare branches of entwined arms and legs,
the unconventional clay of wrinkled faces,
the inherent weathered cobblestones of hearts,
the vintage wood, the natural grain of being alive.
An artisan in retreat, I whisper words
of respect, appreciation, gratitude, then plead:
“Please bring him safely home to me.”
I offer them my art, the simple craftsmanship of sound,
in exchange for a slower pace, a space in
closely measured time to find exceptional peace
in a cup of jasmine tea, nurture the inner beauty
of an ordinary day, improvise good noise by
balancing the harmony of music and poetry.
In this imperfect, primitive, incomplete love--
as rough as wool, as thick and warm and enduring--
I ask them to help me see, with stunning clarity,
that impossible discernment, the unpretentious patina,
the aching, rustic beauty that comes with aging.
Laurie Wagner Buyer
January 26, 2005
