Hammock

When I wrote this poem (7? 8 years ago?) it was an April poem, but now it is a March poem! If I don't post it soon, the woods will have gone from grey-green to green already. This is for my sweet sister . . .

~ Sprung

Surprised to open my eyes and see her

negotiating the grey-green April woods,

I wriggled to one side of the hammock

to make room for my sister.

We’d been busy, she and I,

with babies and ambitions

for six or seven years at least

but we relented at the same moment

and, without precedent,

both made a small pilgrimage

on the first great hammock day of the year.

The sun was still winter-white,

the naked trees all elbows and fingers,

but the birds had seized the season,

making arrangements in a dozen languages at once.

Gingerly she spread her weight

across her share of woven ropes

but still we tipped to the center,

mashed helplessly together.

There we stayed.

Perfection took hold that afternoon

and no one came looking for us.

Nothing seemed to depend on us for its survival

and world suffering was apparently relieved

for one sweet hour,

for the weight of it simply vanished.

We talked about how valuable people are

when they know how to fix things

and how little we knew how to fix.

We talked about when to keep trying,

when to let go,

and the misery of deciding.

We laughed without opening our eyes

and felt sublimely, deliciously lazy.

All we had needed was spring

so we had all we needed.

I was not quite ready

when she swung her legs to the ground

and lifted her arm away—

her arm, warm and soft,

that had molded to my own.

I missed her already.