Monday, April 20, 2015

Magic Hat 4.20.15


When I was small,
I believed that the not so small would die off,
then there would be me,
then there would be nothing.

But there are smaller ones than I,
and not so small ones,
and ones like myself
unrecognizable to each other--

dingy chicken wire fences forced forward;
weeds bursting through
mud like gums--

not only for sun,
but for omnipotence sake.

There is nothing to embellish on today.

I have a small one
who understands the seasons in the most
colloquial way. He does not know
why the sky changes

or why things grow,
take a break--
then grow some more,
take a break--

Maybe die--

To him:
It is hot.
It is cold.
It is not so cold.
It is hot again.

There is nothing to embellish on today.

Even to point out the
surprisingly slow birth of the cherry blossoms;
a reason to say “bud,” and “bloom,”--

Note: “blood,” and “doom.”
Do you notice it now?

It is not so cold.

He believes in the wind,
in rain,
in snow;
the elegance of sweat rolling down in a continuous stream evenly through the road of a forehead,
nose bridge-- and the single drop that
skips over a top lip
like stone on a pond;

He knows this.
He is certain
that these are the seasons.

I do not reason with him.
He is small,
there are smaller ones,
then there is me--

beckoning like March,
proving like April,
try as I May.

There is nothing to relinquish today.

My second-chance-father,
tills the soil
of our littered back yard.
He lays old leaves atop
When things peep out from their allotted graves--
we remove them;
eat them when they are
or cold.
My small one does not partake;
just acknowledges this understanding
of all things that bud


he will be the only one left
and then, nothing.


No comments:

Post a Comment