from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Before he moves,
he waits on time,
listening for a breath.
He moves still
his mind wanders
across the valley
to the next mountain.
Discontent breeds desire.
He sits stiffly
here and there:
(May 20, 2019)
Too near-sighted to see
a larger view, he holds
close to the present.
He has no memory
beyond now; but
with tight-curled fingers,
it is edge enough,
if only for a moment,
to hang a life upon.
(March 30, 2019)
Like flowers in a slow conversation’s
eddy, he floats through his circular day.
Nothing’s amiss. Almost, as memory,
the pattern persists; almost as if he
whispers to someone who listens nearby.
Each flower’s petals fall, by troubled turns,
until the air is not enough to hold
the incoherent world; and, like glass,
it shatters into the composting earth,
oblivious to its own slow demise.
The flower unfolds into its silence;
the swift flutter of bird song in the trees;
the rough caress of dry leaf on dry leaf;
the winter wind’s incessant pulse and pause;
are nothing to his flower’s petal’s fall.
(March 20, 2019)