THE COMSTOCK REVIEW (Print) Sept. 04
I don’t know when it happened;
I let it all fall away. I let it fall
on the long drive to work in the morning
in the sunlight, let it fall crossing
ridge after jaded ridge, fall
with the glimpse of an unlikely hawk
or a capture of crows, or the stacking
of cordwood, the season’s final frost,
fog on the hillside, or the flutter
of a yellow kite in a midsummer wind.
Like the stones of the dead, untended
in the long grass in the middle of June,
in the middle of nowhere I let it fall,
left it all behind and disappeared,
slipped into seamless dreams, drifted
through blue nights and black mornings.
I watched the water boil for coffee,
sat by the river and watched the water
run away toward heaven, heard angels
whisper in the leaves, left the secret
undiscovered, saw the uncertain moon
swim, reflected in dark, starlit pools.
Gone, now, the last of all the wasted words;
the effort, senseless, of upward struggle.