And Only Weariness I Play

I miss the shepherd who
plays across the field
the springtime song,
while only weariness, in my words,
I play.

Tell me, grandpa’s boy, why
do you sing the words so wearily?
Because, grandpa, St George’s Day
caught me again halfway down the road.
Because again on St Nicholas’ Day
the fish swam on without me.

On the Great Feast of the Virgin
I did not drive the flock out
to rest on the high meadows.
I did not leave it alone,
I was not near the bells,
I did not listen to the song,
did not sing with you, softly and off-key
and with so much love.

On Vine-Pruning Day I came back
and from weariness I slept beneath the vines
already green and still unpruned
they rustled me to sleep
and wrapped me in the shade
of the young wine,
promised, and never breathed.

Dusty, the empty roads
toward home.

At Easter I was riding
without looking back
and galloping toward St Theodore’s Day
and the horse race long gone by.
To trade a word or two
with those who lost.

Because, grandpa, when
dawn broke on St Demetrius’ Day
we were here again, you and I
and I listened to you play
not for me, not for yourself,
but out of habit, like the wind.

And, grandpa, Holy Cross Day will come
for us to play together
and outplay each other all year long
from the first feast of the soul
to the second evening of the last Christmas.

1991