There were times when
the butterflies of fancy
fluttered toward affection
in a delicate hour of sacrament.

I loved you like a prayer.

now time appears suspended
above the late-summer brooding of an outcast oak
dreaming of acceptance never persuaded,
grown, or conjured.

the atmosphere is disturbed
by mortality's fatal dynamics,
the quest of the flesh for lust and rot;
love to cruel dubieties and unforeseen--or seen and denied--
distress.

i wish i could close up all those seasons
and territories behind me
and step forever into dreams
without politics or saints,
without lovers and leavers,
without regret, desire,
and the folly of anger...

...but i am rambling.

It is morning.

the sky is overcast, the trees
show an oracle of yellow
behind the fading green
and the autumn heat is still strangely summery.
roses capitulate to purple asters,
lilies to drooping white phlox,
riddles to philosophers,
and poets to memories of lost love

that early morning music--
is it birds or ghosts?
birds have hard eyes;
ghosts' eyes have the softness
of melancholy and compassion
as the setting moon is halved
by the horizon.

the house is trembling under
hammer and saw--
are they wielded by an ex-husband
or my father's ghost?
ex-husbands have critical eyes;
my father's eyes have the softness
of love and acceptance.

the windows rattle in turn,
the doors open and close.
is it me or a ghost
going in and out?
the bright blue sky
spreads out in the window--
is it ocean or ashes?
and that thin torn silk--
cirrus clouds or smoke?
wedding dress or coffin lining?

the house is like an old ghost. and because
the wind blows fresh vitality
into its senescent, flimsy frame,
no one would be surprised
if it fell down tomorrow.

that trembling with joints noisily creaking--
is it the house or me?
quietly waving to the wind,
we'll fall down together
and welcome our mutual extinction