Good Kindling ~ Poems by Virginia Lee Sprague

One day when I was soaked in Paul Mason,

and steeped in self-pity,

I grabbed the knife you made me,

Held its serpentine wooden handle,

Traced a blue, vinous tributary,

Lightly skating on collagen, the blade held the cold,

As it figure eighted on the warm pond,

Preferring to make symbols of eternity,

Rather than to enter it.

Last night I met a poet who lives in Williamsport,

The town in which you learned your craft,

Of making tools of beauty, utility, and danger,

Yesterday, I cut peaches and strawberries,

With your sharp gift, no blood was spilled,

It opened sweet, fragrant juices to my mouth,

I smiled and whispered, "Thank-you",

That I now know the difference between,

Nourishment and darkness, a peach and flesh,

Deep friendship and shallow need,

Soul surgery and liquid death.

Tonight it rained, a cleansing storm, I thought of you,

As I wished liquid life to the reservoirs,

On the mountains where we were cradled,

I wished you the warmth and love of a good woman,

The kindness of rain, the smell of worms or fish,

The laughter of getting soaked or soaking someone,

The mist of mountains, eyes, or skin,

When one has had a proper drenching.

Looking at a yearbook the other day,

On one page was my first love,

An arrogant, brilliant, Jewish boy,

Who bragged about his IQ and drove too fast,

On the opposite page was you, Aryan, subtle,

Careful with the lives of others,

A renaissance man waiting to happen,

Who became a maker of blades,

And the rescuer of a sodden, no longer maiden,

Who helped you build bongs and fires,

Pick wild strawberries and stay sane,

And you returned the favor.

For Mark, a maker of many things, tangible and intangible.

(Thanks for the knife and jam.)

September 1995