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