At Last
AT LAST
On my veranda I watch beads of sweat
slide down the glass of ale I use to get over
something I’m not sure of, perhaps just an
absence of idea or thought, a quiet discontent
that sparrow at the feeder cannot know.
The small bird skitters to his majesty the Red Oak
who lives slow in the corner of my woods.
He is old enough to speak with substance and
weight beyond the business of anything I’ll ever do...
To my left that willow I set in the ground some years
ago waves long wands in the breeze over the water
and careful plantings on the terraces and slopes.
And there it is, the sure knowledge ofan ungentle
slide down three score years and ten to sleep,
with a paucity of hope for substance and weight.
Copyright
Vol Lindsey
7/12/2004
Copyright © Vol Lindsey | Year Posted 2022
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