The wind corrugates the pond
And strafes out a texture to this day:
Dry and wild and northerly it
Lifts up loosened leaves
Late to this dance
Then drops them back without a care
And so they sink and cascade down to
Where the light is liquid thick.
They slumber in this graveyard bed
So mired in winter’s long nights pace
Waiting for the southern breeze
Waiting cold and still.
The wind is hustling and so
The red rocker deck chair pitches and yaws
And perhaps what was once (or is still to be)
A trace of you, or me
Pitches and sways there?
An atom or two of someone we knew
Slowed to encounter
This chair
This roadside attraction
A way-stop on a longer journey
Paused, resisted, and changed and then
Free again to move with such abandon
Free from being reigned in
Then locked
Bonded in some more solid body
Organic or inorganic.
Time will show such change
Both as loss and gain
And the blowing wind will offer an answer.
The wind is scouring the steel -gray lake
Nature’s game of give-and-take,
The last of autumn’s sun soaked heat
It starts it ends and so’s complete,
Out of the chops the steam blows back
To the blue beyond on its own track,
This happens every day we know
But not so obviously a show,
Given free as if to prove
Of bigger things on constant move,
And so too a bit of me blows by
As I look on, cold too but dry.
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