each day a cycle
home to work, work to home
a quiet faith in things,
as real as unreal this way
of being here all these seasons
so many things
to have opinions on
yet as I drive along
I don't arrive
at any of them
standing here just watching
the spring sun sparkle
on the water...
what is it they say
about living life to the fullest
now the mower won't start
in the middle of this rough day
I find myself
carrying a white towel
back to the house
in my daughter's room
which used to be my room
her shelf
full of model horses
all looking at me
high clouds...
one horse leans in
against another-
before our children
my wife and I were like that
with thunder very close
our little dog
gets in under my legs,
if only I could feel
so safe with myself
early summer breeze
plays the sun
across the forest ferns-
everything so nice
I hardly know what to do
before the new puppy
my wife got ten chickens,
before them two parakeets, two cats,
our two children and long ago
just me...
at the old parking lot
the sparrows bathe
in a big puddle
sometimes I'm so happy
just to be here as witness
my wife needs a room
of her own,
a place to close the door,
a place I never saw
in the sunnier days before
a storm coming up
and as I take the laundry
off the line
it occurs to me
this is a moment to savor
I hold back
saying anything
because of the way one thing
leads to another
if you let them start...
hugging
perhaps too long
but not long enough
to remember
her name
years are passing
unable to shed tears
for anyone-
will I wait to the end
to let it all go?
I've never been homeless
but think of it
seeing that shed
with a broken window
dawn light streaming in
the geese go where
they must go
no mind-
the spring rain drops
bouncing off me
much of my life spent
wanting others to like
what I like-
in my jacket pocket the stone
is worked with worries
having told her
I was writing less
and living more
I promptly write down
the absudity of that
for all that
which I will not get to
do in this life
the fountain carries on
in the rain
the sun leaves me
at the Rest Area
with another day done
I entertain the thought
'you can never go home again'
you, ready as me
there on the other coast
imagine, to hop a freight
and leave behind all
that didn't seem quite right
in the wind
I rake and gather
leaves
with thoughts of people
I've known before
the river must make
so many curves
to pass through the lowlands
the way nature always
says something to us
this piercing cold
makes me realize
the gift it is to be alive
even if the way along
is too thin or thicketed
in the attic
to set a mousetrap
I find a letter of long ago,
the fiction of a new love
that did not last
amazing
flesh and bones
driving in heavy traffic,
that here I am
doing this
in embers tonight
I stare
and wonder why
I am here,
you are there
ten years later...
both married with one child
we all pass on a path
and smile politely
without a word
cold walk home
I stop to pee
looking up in the dark
the tiniest of snowflakes
finds my nose
to show me
the spirit of a train
I wish for one to come-
these overgrown tracks
I walk along
the cold walk,
silence
between us,
the creek running
under ice
three days removed
from Halloween
the ghost of me goes
through the motions
in this tattered family costume
my favorite old t-shirt
through the wash
with my fountain pen in pocket
has left ink stains to wear
all around my heart
showing my daughter
my childhood 'fish' jackknife
she promptly says:
"i'll put that in your grave
when you die"
in line
at the post office
I watch her
pen point search
for the last thing to say
beneath the open
library window
she wakes slightly to stretch,
and beautifully
change position
creating a space
in himself
that can't be filled
- his lengthy ritual
seaside walks
a pale sun
visits
every now and then
the crocus bed
you made
in the bottom of a box
during our yard sale
I find my childhood chieftan ring
- within five minutes
my son has lost it
