Stopping to Take the Time

Ruthie went to a Rose Noticing Party last week, which, after the fact, she described for me -- sounded about like what you'd expect. They got together -- five or six girls -- and read poetry to each other, possibly tried to channel the ghost of Jane Austin and after a little spring shower the roses, as promised, opened up and smelled good. Sounds like the tea-parties my sister used to have with her stuffed animals, but hey, Ruthie had a great time.

(It makes me very happy that we have the kind of friends who get together expressly to notice roses. I like my life.)

Everyone who went was encouraged to bring something poetic to share, which seems like the kind of thing that's always a good idea. Ruthie considered Robert Frost, (historically her favorite,) and I suggested some Tasha Golden, (Ruthie thought that'd be weird,) before she settled on Emily Saliers. The whole conversation/experience turned last Saturday into Poetry Awareness Day at our house. Here's one that stood out (reproduced here without any kind of permission at all):

Language or the Kiss
by Emily Saliers

I don't know if it was real or in a dream
Lately, waking up, I'm not sure where I've been
There was a table set for six and five were there
I stood outside and kept my eyes upon that empty chair

And there was steam on the windows from the kitchen
Laughter like a language I once spoke with ease
But I'm made mute by the virtue of decision;
I choose most of your life goes on without me

Oh, the fear I've known
That I might reap the praise of strangers
And end up on my own
All I've sown was a song

But maybe I was wrong

I said to you the one gift which I'd adore:
The package of the next ten years unfolding
But you told me if I had my way I'd be bored
Right then I knew I loved you best born of your scolding

When we last talked we were lying on our backs
Looking up at the sky through the ceiling
I used to lie like that alone out on the driveway
Trying to read the Greek upon the stars
The alphabet of feeling

Oh, I knew back then it was a calling that said,
"If joy, then pain"
The sound of the voice these years later
Is still the same

I am alone in the hotel room tonight
I squeeze the sky out
But there's not a star appears
Begin my studies with this paper and this pencil
And I'm working through the grammar of my fears

Mercy

What I won't give to have the things that mean the most
Not to be the things I miss

Unforgiving

The choice still is:
The language or the kiss.