the location of the lindens -

Like the love I have been given,
the map
is veiled to all but god.

unable to forecast
yet not forbidden,
my life has wound around me like the
clattering of laughter up the stairwell,
like the launching of dust motes
through the sunlight
of that window.

the one beside our bed,
so often covered with the blinds,
flimsy bars,
unable to control the sounds of the street
or the fingers of the trees,
the ones I wish were lindens
for their magical smell.

that only comes once a year,
from the temple down the block,
holding me so tightly those two weeks
with that scent that is at once
known,
and untraceable.

like the oriental rugs of st.simons,
or the takashimaya on your clavicle,
it is a summoning
more than a memory,
bringing back the best of us,
of me,
of us.

it is a gift.

and it runs from temple to temple,
both holy places,
both maps of something I have yet to see whole.

that when I see whole,
I will see,
perhaps,
you.



GLS
7.6.04