Breathe in. Breathe
out. Repeat.
The time of year to watch things die. Leaves flounce
by, our bird whistles towards some day soon. Light dims early. From
somewhere slips a note of music. Chop vegetables, whisper prayers,
sing. Rake leaves.
Wish for something in different colours. Imagine
a photograph of twisted silver birch on the neighbour's lawn, reflect
on symbols in the window: reading angel, tree of life. All things,
listening.
The calendar picture reflects yellow into a lake
somewhere. This old valley and hills are soft beauty of erosion.
At my sister's place, it is already winter. Farther west, rain.
Travel in each direction, something similar.
I will seek lily of the valley, plant it somewhere
close by, hope that somewhere a woman I do not know plants gardenia.
The scent of all the things we hunger for, the fight to stay alive,
the touch of knowing. How the guy I saw yesterday looked like a
man thinking about getting old.
Many deaths of late. A new paean to griefs unknown,
new poems in the skies. Suddenly the desire to bake bread, a wish
for grandchildren, a glance at mystery, the corners of my eyes.
Leaves get stuck in the tines. Remove.
Continue. Watch trajectory of light. Formations
like geese going south, an imagination more beauteous than this
moment.
Breathe in. Breathe
out. Repeat.
