Sunday, September 6, 2020

Of Salt and Excitement

Called.

Chickens croon to each other in the shade cast by hemlock trees. Hunger has no friend.

Morning glories ascending thready vines encircling the front yard maple.

Blind yet he runs when my daughter calls him, clear and true, bracing on arrival to a command uttered so low none of us outside the two of them - the half-blind circle they make in the universe - can hear it. 

Is this love? Is this?

Lost in the economy, joined by elephants and cobblers, all of us lamenting days gone by.

Sanctified. Satiated.

Space shuttle disasters. 

She lays down in the field with the horses, no book or pen, content to spend time with them longer. The past is what we remember, but not only, the world the way it is.

Buttercups, buttercrunch. Near the tomatoes, half a dozen marigolds on which bees rest, and an invisible hint of winter.

How low my voice gets a few moments before coming, the bottom of a marble staircase, the Greek sea at dawn. Syllables full of salt and excitement.

Groundhogs scurry out from the raspberry bushes. Translucent dragonfly wings, a late entry in the catalog of beautiful things I hope to take with me into the void. 

Be symbiotic, simple, save somebody.

No comments:

Post a Comment