November 9, 2000
Early November
It’s trite, really.
One sighs,
Subtle odors mingle.
A tacit agreement is reached
Insistent rain
to this space at least.
And now what shall we do?
Slowly the answer weaves itself
Hand here
Double dandelion seed
Slips seamless back to sleep.
Sunday
grey
rain insisting on the roof.
No leaves left but the oak
muttering just outside the bedroom window,
tenured scholars giving full brown consideration
to arcane issues.
November,
dead Sunday before a ciphered election,
rain on the roof that, even now,
they know must be shingled next year --
For sure.
One turns;
to move no farther yet
to take no quick decision on this day.
muttering leaves;
Breaths synchronize a magic that brings
uneasy temporary order
Length echoes length in gentle desperation
In the deep language of blood and lymph
and sinew.
however often practiced
always new.
tongue there
Signals to begin the deep dance down
to the heart of the only truth there is.
Blows
shingles off the roof
Cancels the election
Paints the oak leaves purple
Fills the room
momentarily
with the simplest of bright truths