I look back through Novemember’s
just-hanging-on leaves, the negative space
of our promises to drive through Malabar’s
winding road, taking in October’s blasts of color.
The weeks have whipped by, the leaves ignoring my
requests to stay, to never fall away, and my melancholy
drips bitter without the sweet.
Then I see our love’s first fruits hanging
on you, lying on you like so many apples,
our children’s morning sweetness, their bodies’
hard softness, wild hair, pokey elbows,
squishy bellies and meaty feet. They grow
unconditionally from our branches, buds,
and blossoms. They grow their own stems and leaves
and seeds and develop their own autumn flavors.
We drop away when we are ripe
thankful for what we are
what we have
and what we miss.
I used to stand in our galley kitchen, feet planted in tadasana,
peeling the tough skin from grapes and cutting the pulp into quarters,
and I marveled at my blessings.
Today I stand in the same kitchen,
haphazardly in tadasana,
while the babe pops in
from the yard with
dandelions and clover
for my vase,
and then again
“I love you,”
how a boy
after Annie Finch
At times I can lament my youth
when body smooth and taut did prove
itself blind to age and the passage of Time
when words o’er ran the banks of meter and rhyme
and verse came flawlessly free and streaming.
Now the babies, crying then squealing
with delight and true frustration;
we are swamped with operation:
Family Life. So now it comes
to this sweet blog, moments of love’s
action and age unfolding in these
intangible pages. What does it mean
to find ourselves still writing, still loving,
still talking, working, seeking, moving
through the years? Me and you:
we grasp Time’s song and sing it through.