The things that matter most are always free,
Like pleasures that we take in those we love,
Or mists that fall upon the hills of green,
Or simple, gentle soundings of a dove,
The whisper of a baby’s milky breath
As we our faces in that warmth do sink,
The company of friends once lost, returned
To fill our lives with possibilities.
The treasures that we gain from gems and gold
Are fleeting like the falling of a star
That streaks across the night proclaiming bold;
These riches are not steadfast as we are
When you in trust with me stand hand to hand
And find our grace in love of earth and man.
I am very pleased to report that Enchanted Oak's efforts to raise funds for Haiti through her "Simple Things" challenge resulted in 108 people around the globe participating! Chris's challenge spurred me to write this sonnet, and I thank her for the opportunity to be part of this worthwhile cause.
I want to
move my fingers
over your
smooth grammar
caress your
long vowels
wrap myself
in your
strong syntax
pull your
discourse
to my breast
fold you up
tuck you
in the pocket
of my heart
uncrease you
in the dark
decode you
over and over
again.
Perhaps
it is enough
that the sun
streaks silver
as it crosses
leaden skies,
enough
that trembling leaves
let go their bonds
and sail
before they fall.
Sometimes,
I think
perhaps
it is enough
that the heart
expands
over and over
of its own accord
before it finds
its rest.
This poem is occasioned by the discovery in an old stagecoach stop of an unopened letter from Mrs. Mary C. Mann to Mrs. William B. Taliaferro, wife of Confederate General William B. Taliaferro, written
The letter is property of my father, amateur Civil War historian, who traded an outboard motor for the find. It is now in the hands of a preservationist at the University of Virginia, but its fate rests on Dad’s decision either to donate to the College of William and Mary, where Taliaferro’s papers rest, or to hoard his find. Time will tell.
The details in the first two stanzas are gleaned from the letter. The commentary of the last two stanzas is mine. While I revile Mrs. Mann’s venomous sentiments regarding the North and Mr. Lincoln’s Proclamation, I sympathize with all women who have worried for their men and lived their lives helpless of the forces that make the rules. As human, we must try to understand those whose ideas are not our own.
The Letter
A clock ticks minutes, days,
Generations, centuries, more…
Behind the mantel, lodged within a crack,
A missive waits in silent, sad dismay,
While Pippins, those not fallen and decayed,
Make flat array on proffered china plate,
And garden gay with flowers not yet nipped,
Soft Dahlia and Verbena, ever bloom
And ward away the threat of early frost
Forever in the peace that holds off Doom.
The little ones stay well, the doctor ill;
The neighbor’s youngest daughter still is gone.
Your son remains enthralled by soldier’s turn;
The servants settled, yet you feel alone.
Your husband’s horse once more from you bespoke;
Your visit to the city unfulfilled,
Your thoughts on Proclamation, “vile, extreme,”
Disdain and fear of changes here revealed.
Oh, lady, have you wondered all of time
That words of honeyed warm Virginia Tide
Should fall on ears turned deaf to soft, sweet sounds
And bring no answering measure to your side?
Have you long feared for horrors of the march,
Stampedes of dreadful, frightful things to come?
Would you have been at peace if you had known
That brothers here once more would be as one?
Your genteel letter sent with faith and hope
To silence anxious hearts and fears allay
Was lost to chance behind a piece of wood
And holds your heart in stasis here today.
Go softly to your rest with this sweet thought:
That one who reads the words that went astray,
Long years beyond your joys and fears and love,
Feels these as you, a time and tide away.
