I have friends who don’t like the summer,
who are intolerant of even mildly hot weather,
absolutely miserable above 80 degrees.
I had a professor once, a poet, Vern Rutsala,
who absolutely loved the rain and he’d dress
for it even if the skies were perfectly clear.
On a day like this the sun is out, antagonizing
the April habit of torrential rains, at least here
in the Pacific Northwest. Almost perfectly Spring,
an ideal day for an imaginary guitar solo
over the top of a bluesy jam in 9/4, of course.
That melody was in my head, outside with dogs,
just sitting in a chair doing absolutely nothing,
contemplating what I want to talk about
with my therapist in tomorrow’s session, and
imagining myself as the best possible imperfect.
I’ll say it: I have been stuck. After the melody
at the head the solo takes off in its virtuosity.
“The whole thing makes me want to weep;” there’s
a kind of wistfulness, but also joy, like this could
easily be either a winter or a spring composition.
I am not ready, I think, to be dependent only on
imagination. Six perfect notes, imprinted on the memory.
I can call them up at will–and while the soloing in between
defies humming along–I know that melody will return.
This is no prison. Music is not illegal. This is not the last song.
I’m good to wait.
michael jarmer 