Time to take my time.
Open the door and stick out my hand, finger the first bite of winter.
No matter, a morning without a roof makes up for the hours.
I often wonder
about a life spent out beyond the city limits.
It’s all tied together
in lattices of stories and building frames,
back along the old ways, when and where our tails meet.
Blow on your hands,
see the billowing breath of others who’ve stood here before.
Past, past doors and windows.
I can’t wait for a nod or a friendly hello.
The wheels grind crusted dust,
the hub of a possible breakdown.
Sorry, sorry I have to go.
If you wait long enough
the sprouts separate the asphalt
and conjure up a potpourrie we all remember.
It doesn’t take any sleight of hand
to dig and let loose the straw.
When I was a boy
the wind was my friend. I laughed
when the trees swayed and dragonflies
blew west into the setting sun.
Now I clutch my hat, bracing against the cold.
Hold on there,
why don’t you pick that up?
Everything has fallen here, but that doesn’t mean
any old tossing of litter
earns its place among the bones.
I remember when Mama took me into the garden
and we buried Melanie (the hamster)
among the roots.
Soil dashed across her body,
forever clothed in loam.
The cat she settled in the stillness,
pricking her ears for
scratching feet. A crow sailed
over, eyeing branches.
She curled up, hidden from view.