What’s a memory of a fern
or an echo of moss
to the roar in the ears
from a silent fury bursting?
I’m twelve in a glade all alone,
I’m nineteen in a park with a smoke,
I’m forty-nine wishing I was six
in the meadow with just the wind.
A forest bird sings of troubles
left by the fallen tree
and it’s a miracle
I can feel anything.
Questioning the Why of my days
with their varied meter and purpose,
I can only tell you what I think-
because I know so very little:
Mostly I know few things matter
in the end because in the end,
there’s either quiet or music,
patterns or darkness,
there will be healing or we’ll forget,
you’ll be there or you won’t,
stories will last until they don’t,
and there’s little I know now
that means more than what I knew at six.
I asked for a sign
but wouldn’t open my eyes
because the sound of backyard birds
felt like a caress.
It was like we were at the pond
and it was early in the evening.
There was plenty of time for ice cream.
Please don’t go yet.
It seems quiet below the water
but it’s hard to get comfortable
when I can’t feel the weight of things.
I’ve made several bridges,
mostly imaginary, to link the real
and the construct I seem to crave.
Sometimes we soar; often we fall.
Imagine dancing on rooftops
with no fear of what’s below!
