April 24, 2020

• the slant of light

  

   

   

  perhaps the day will come
  when we will leave the creek,
  and round bales will sit
  only in the meadows
  of memory,
  like the hushed sound
  when a circular saw,
  cutting through plywood
  stops,
  and sawdust
  is drifting in sunbeamed air.

  perhaps we can fold
  the four corners of a moment
  into the center;
  open it
  in nights to come
  to catch the scent
  of grass and clover
  in the dark

  make a petal fold, a valley fold,
  a series of mountains fold,
  fold an imaginary embrace
  in such a way
  that it becomes
  something that really happened
  in memory

  things past,
  we can be forever sure of.
  the moon shining
  on a meandering creek
  like molten silver on black silk.
  a red bird like a bow
  on a package, leaving wounds and feathers
  on a window.  leaves dropping
  in silence after the first frost
  of october....

  we can only be unsure
  of what will happen next.  the slant
  of light as the sun declines
  is a knife, separating the creek
  and us
  from old age
  and abandonment

  • 5:56 am
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