FALL WITH COLOUR
i love the crisp whiskey crackle love the
empty space so far filled with waves of wind, it is time for
centipedes to die and tiny things to curl like seeds below the soil it is time for
final toil: racking chest-heaves, the bringing in of squash and last rot tomatoes - of
apples in the basement, some seeping and others
openly weeping but so many hard and still as stones and
as silent pursed around their bitter seeds of twigs and a sad violent circle of feathers where that
big orange tom made to dance with a robin (he danced with my cat and she was all
holes around her big calico sweater neck:
Alice never loses, but age is in her teeth and in the
sometime stumble
since her stroke -
she doesn't get stuck-wink any more, but blood bloomed brown in one green shining
and for a while she was a kitten again, mewing even
now she is a season older and
maybe sometimes she loses. I am losing
time every day - how to keep up! I am assumed to be preparing this mortal volume for the
forensic apparatchik of publishers, supposed to be polishing
my own teeth - but there again is that
quiet cry
a few sharp grey hairs in brown have become
a veritable dust-storm up above; loss, and the thinning not confined to hair (or mind)
skin and tendon have quit their strength, put down quickness and begun the tremulous process of
old age: i walked past a leaf, red-green maple on wet dirt and remembered a truth:
in death, maximize both time (by twisting and turning, no other way through the wind but)
and display: with colour, lad, with colour.
2011.
©Peter A. Greene 2011.
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