The Weight of Their Years

Abstract

The Weight of Their Years Floyd Skloot (bio) Robert Frost in Old Age So now he knows the heart remembers lossthe way the woods remember winter storms.Deadfall litters the trail he follows, formsa frail jagged bridge he uses to crossthe surging runoff stream, plays host to swarmsof insects massing as the weather warms,fills the drenched air with scents of rot and growth.He walks for the ragged muscle and strainedbreath in his chest, for all he can recallof old griefs and other early Aprilswhen he thought the worst was over, the stained soulcleansed, the way through straight and clear as truth. My Grandparents' Dance My grandparents' stately polka was donein waltz time, no matter the music's speed.They turned slow whistling circles that spunthrough other dancers' wakes and freedsomething in them I had never seen before.This smiling man was the old country Max,so graceful as he moved across the floorwith a hand spread low on Rose's back,and this gliding woman with fingertipsgrazing Max's shoulder flowed on the riseand fall of their dance as she slippedthe weight of all her years, head back, eyesclosed. Her gown sparkled as she twirled underhis raised arm, and he gazed down in wonder. [End Page 137] Miranda at Midnight Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises. —The Tempest Magic lets me see her in the dim lightof a new moon. I remember that smilelingering in the young woman's midnightface, a child's trace of wonder at the wildfamiliar twangling that is all she knowsof sea winds across the same stunted trees,rocks, coves, caves. Now the island's voice growssofter even as it rises, and sleepis what it sings. I can see what she seesin this still moment before time resumes,hear what she hears through our dreams' sorceries.Again and again day's first light consumesthese riches, and at night I seize them back.But in the island's noise I hear the beatof my own heart at last. No more magic,it says. Let her go. There is nothing to fear. Robert Louis Stevenson in Samoa, Summer 1894 He is up and about, a small wonderin itself, savoring the heavy scentof early September sea air. Undera tropical sun that has always meanthope to him, he feels the sort of powerlong forgotten in his muscles and bones.He will work well again after all, hourby hour in the hot flow of all he knowsabout young love on the land of his youth.The memory of hard winds sends a chillthrough him. No, his fever is back, truthin the form of a wracking cough. He willsit a moment and listen to the streamsay nothing is ever the way it seems. [End Page 138] Floyd Skloot Floyd Skloot's seventh collection of poems, Close Reading, will appear from Tupelo Press in 2012, soon followed by Cream of Kohlrabi, his first book of stories. Copyright © 2011 University of the South