Not the Song, but After

Now everywhere the pageantry of youth is on display: The squeal of bike chains spinning through the gray plays fugue to puddle-froth; The punctual blitz of hyacinths in April ushers spring with lavender dripped from the upturned wing of wind-swept Gabriel. A youngish pair walks wired at the arms— she casually ribbing him, he lightly brushing her breast, jibbing their step to spare the worms stranded along the road. Too soon, their laughter rises and goes drifting toward silence. And now the young man knows love’s not the song, but after— like the mute, remembered chorus of the rain that stains the walk long after falling, or the lifeless stalk still hoisting its head of grain. Uneasy now, she loosens from his hand. Their dark familiars stare back, reflected by the passing cars, with speechless reprimand. Before the chill, each chartered hell grows hotter, yet every burn will teach him how to run—and how to turn her wine back into water.