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

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