"Pongáio" was the name my Aunt Mona gave to a long, green, cool room where we gathered at her home —
replete with comfy chairs, a rocker, sewing machine, sewing goods, beautiful beads, shelves, books, bibelots, photographs, odds'n'ends, mementos of a life, treasures —
a gathering of all the useful & 'useless' things that so make life a pleasure.

Monday, January 27, 2003

Solo for a Saturday Night Guitar

for Day
Solo for a Saturday Night Guitar

Time was. Time is. Time shall be.
Man invented time to be used.
Love was. Love is. Love shall be.
Yet no man never invented love
Nor is love to be used like time.
A clock wears numbers one to twelve
And you look and read its face
And tell the time pre-cise-ly ex-act-ly.
Yet who reads the face of love?
Who tells love numbers pre-cise-ly ex-act-ly?
Holding love in a tight hold for keeps,
Fastening love down and saying
"It's here now and here for always."
You don't do this off-hand, careless-like.
Love costs. Love is not so easy
Nor is the shimmering of star dust
Nor the smooth flow of new blossoms
or the drag of a heavy hungering for someone.
       Love is a white horse you ride
       or wheels and hammers leaving you lonely
       or a rock in the moonlight for rest
       or a sea where phantom ships cross always
       or a tall shadow always whispering
       or a circle of spray and prisms ---
       maybe a rainbow around your shoulders
               Heavy heavy is love to carry
               and light as one rose petal.
               light as a bubble, a blossom,
               a remembering bar of music
               or a finger or a wisp of hair
               never forgotten.

                           Carl Sandburg,
                           American, 1878-1967

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