Bealtaine: Atwater Park

No, little to do with heat, this season --
Maybe the quick green that curves along the
Heart of a flame. Ember-blue scylla, gold
Flambeaux of narcissi under a coal-
Powder sky.

Years ago, just at summer's
First cold edge, a man floored his Impala
Over the bluff and into the release
Of the ashblack flotsam below. The sun,
That sometimes heals, has long since healed the gouged
Lawn and flattened junipers where the bluff
Plummets. Today, a northeaster three days
Blowing; the lake the color of graywacke,
Waves plangent, iterative: Where are you,
Love? Why do you never come?

As a boy,
I fell, like the man in his car, from this
Same bluff: it's rooty edge gave as I danced
In front of my brother. He, four, smiled a
Little to see me spill, catch myself on
A rough ledge of clay and oak leaves. Then he
Threw himself after me, past me, into
The unweakening wind.

When I reach him,
Caught at the foot of a hawthorn, flowers
Still snuffed to buds, he looked up — no tears — and
Said softly, We're going to die, you know.