light maintenance

[a first draft -- sparked by Luisa A. Igloria's photo In the Turkish Coffeeshop]

On the wall of a friend's garage,
antique Post-its, laminated for posterity
by layers of packing tape,
detail how to keep the door happy,
in a language we eventually
deciphered as Turkish.
We first told the translator
Dikkat yilda 2 kaz,
which yielded care
of two geese per year,
which sounded (sadly)
a touch too fairy-tale,
so then we tried Dikkat
yilda 2 kez yapilacak,
which generated attention
to be paid twice a year.

I'm kidding about the "sadly" -- my friend
would find the tending of geraniums onerous,
never mind the flappings of fowl. As would I,
though I've tickled myself these past few days
thinking, what if our mysterious Turkish mentor
had indeed meant "geese"? Something as simple
as "keep the door shut
so the birds stay warm"
or perhaps as wild
as brushing the three finest belly feathers
across the fringe of a welcome mat
at least twice a year,
the better to pay heed
to what the doors and windows
let in and keep out --

visitors, vermin, gusts of air,
slivers and slabs and slashes of light --
everywhere I go, within these days of sorrow,
I cannot help but catch my breath
at how things fall upon and toward each other:
At sunlight striking a page or paving stone.
At how the text tattooed on Jelena's back
literally met the life-line on my palm
when I spotted her through a bend.
At how the leaves
on the café chandelier
are casting a wind-knotted veil
across the face of a queen
Carla's drawing for a Tarot deck.
I cannot tell you what the cards will say.
I cannot promise that the door will last
even if we lavish upon it the best
in grease or geese that money can buy.
Even when we care for things with all our heart
sometimes they cannot help but fall apart and fall away.
But though the winds and wolves blow down a hundred houses,
what is there to do next but to keep paying attention?


-- pld, 7/16/13