Counting My Blessings
(To Enid Petherick)



I
The snow is knee deep and the month is slow.
I sit ponderously pondering
The purpose of me, while the gray river flows
Encaged in ice and birch trees keep thrashing
Dry bones against the house.  I am wishing
For sun and birdsong, but there is no
Sun or birdsong - just this leveling
Wind that lifts and packs the shifting snow.
And I am alone.  Alone but for the flow
Of ceaseless thoughts that continually send
Useless thoughts spiraling down into
Pity.The purpose of me? I can' t pretend
To know. But one persistent thought rings true:
The purpose of me is somehow tied to you.


II
We met in Mexico thirty winters
Ago. I on my way to Peru and flying
That midnight. You studying the dioramas
Of the many Mexican wars and - stretching
Your hand beyond the barrier of one - pinching
The dirt to see if it was real. I joked.
You smiled. We continued on all day exploring
Enchantment: boating on Chapultepec,
Lunching on salsa. You listened while I spoke
Of dreams and fears and childish feats. We echoed
Goodbyes at your streetcar and I wandered
To the airport. And left Mexico
Seeking adventure. But as I traveled
Something deep inside unraveled.


III
Though not worldly, I had met others.
And when my plane landed in Lima, it was
The culmination of many plans. Another
Week and I could stand with my dreams
At Machu Picchu. But for three long days
I moped around Lima. Alone. Aware
Of a strange, hollow, stupefying malaise:
I changed my ticket and without a second care,
Boarded a plane for Mexico where
I hoped for a welcome from you. But I did not
Know your name. For an address--I knew
Only a streetcar route. Love is not
Logical. It is but to do.
I felt - at heart - I must - I must! - find you.


IV
The plane slanted down into the light of dawn
And I looked out the window at a city
Of five million. On the telephone
My ardent Spanish elicited sympathy
From those who understood the sanity
Of a man seeking a woman whose name and address
He didn't know. No luck. Desperately
I tried the Consulate. And tried to impress
The clerk with the gravity of my request.
Cautiously he mentioned a hostel that was
A women's residence. Triumphantly
I yelled, "That's it!" And never doubted it was.
You seemed surprised - puzzled perhaps - to see
This peripatetic pilgrim - but were you happy?


V
I was too insecure to know, but you
Seemed content to travel with me. East
To a small village reached by dugout canoe
Where I - slyly, virtuously - kissed
Your cheek. It must be your choice. Then west
To Mazatlan where a woman saw us lying
Platonically and slammed the window lest
We mortify her morals. Then south, fording
The rivers, to Puerto Escondido, renting
Separate rooms but scandalizing the maid
Because I modeled nude for you. I lay
Posing. Freely you came and we sculpted
The physical foundation to love. After, in play,
You - shyly - whispered, "Happy Valentine's Day."


VI
That was the first but not the best. Tyros
Are ever learners. Within a year I stood
In a small country church amid the throes
Of ceremony. Two wood stoves tried
To bulwark against the Canadian winter. Beside
Me blossomed a gorgeous woman - radiant
Beneath her silk mantilla. The stoves tried -
But a winter coat hid each hunkered guest
And the Minister's breath was evident
Through the candle glow. I alone
Sweated profusely - and threatened to
Faint. And as the Minister began to intone
The marriage questions, I stammered to you:
"I will...I wish...I want...I must - I DO!"


VII
Two weeks later we boarded the freighter, "Sun Dove",
For Rotterdam; then south to Sevilla where
We rented the rooftop maid's room high above
The frenzy of Feria. With great care
You packed birth control pills into spare
Luggage that was to follow to Germany
As we hitchhiked to Munich. And months after--
It did. Meanwhile, I husbanded many
Joyous samples of your beautifully
Insistent love. And Lisa was our reward.
Watching you flourish proudly as a mother hen,
I felt my pride in the two of you expand -
Pride that contained the normal hubris of men:
You had once thought you could not have children.


VIII
We worked and saved - but work is not a life
And when we had saved a little, I pressed
To return to Europe. You suggested we buy
Land and so we bought mountains and forests
And a river with a small house. Blessed
With out second daughter, Amber, we spent
The next winter elaborating our nest
And learning what self-sufficiency meant.
We lived in the wood-warmed kitchen while the vacant
Remainder dipped to sixteen degrees below
Freezing. And though we were far from any
Neighbor, we were never alone. The strength
Of any home, marriage, family
Is that soul who generates the warmth:
Yours is the living heart in our hearth.


IX
And always you have painted. Canadian
Maples. Mexican rubble. Spanish bullfights.
German Landsberger Strasse. Red Indian
Mountain. Giant Firs. Distilled Light.
Arizona deserts. Campfires by starlight.
Bright watercolors when the girls were small.
Bold acrylics later so that you might
Work larger. To me it was all
Puzzling. Two dimensional
In a many-dimensional space.
Slowly I began to realize nearly
What painting meant to you. And then to face -
In the range of your creativity -
The reality of your ability.