Sitting alone on a cement block
before the winds kick up
and the rain comes down
for now all is calm by the marsh
except for a rustle and a drizzle
and the sounds of some people
hooting and hollering across the pond
bare branches wrapped in creeping vines
Bobo prancing through yellow leaves
and some sadness covering my heart
a thin skein of indeterminate waiting
the after-effects of saying too much
the births and deaths that coincide
each year evoking images on this date
of a windowsill, a butterfly, an air shaft
with a narrow view of the river
a breeze that embodies a gust
or a ghost preambling the unknown
future, a moment in time foreshadowing
the next and the next
the nexus and the bullseye
the spinning forces and centrifuge
separating the liquid of love
from the false solid of doubt
I can almost see the cradles nestled
in the trees and the birds
abandoning their nests
planes grounded and empty stations
static airwaves and wind rushing in
to fill the spaces between felled trunks
and the gaps in memory
my hand cannot translate
nor can my arm reach far enough
to grasp the lost papers
some burned around the edges
and others fully intact
like the encrypted messages
the children wrote in milk
recalling the moment of birth
when so much was forgotten
in that first light of entering this illusive world

One thought on “Waiting


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