Dark Spring

Dark Spring.
April is the cruelest month.
Eliot, thou shouldst be living
at this hour.
3 a.m.
Frog rain.
Too late for coffee.
Too early for sleep.
Listening to Blue Monk
live at the Five Spot
with Johnny Griffin.
Reading the Brothers
Karamatzov again.
First time I grokked
the whole novel in three days
lying beside a canal
in a French vineyard
because nobody would pick up
an American hitch hiker.
Viet Nam.
Eating nothing but
stolen grapes
and waving at Parisians
who drifted by on barges
toward the Riviera.
Children in a hut
set on fire by Cong.
Or was it I?
Sauntering along Medieval
pilgrimage routes with
Father Zosima.
No name back then
for PTSD.
Learning Gregorian chant
at the monastery of Solemnes.
Met Mary Magdalene
through a prayer at her tomb
in the church at Vezeley.
Odd.
Time present
no more real
than time past.
Bach concert
in Chartres cathedral.
Afterward, at the youth hostel,
falling silently in love
with a girl from Calais
who made French fries.
Really.
No name back then
for the void in my heart.
Time present.
Time past.
I'm just a hobo of wonder
bumming a ride
on the next breath.
Seeking refuge
in the ordinary.