"How young can you die of old age?" (Steven Wright)
The autumn days get shorter and rainier with every fall
Of the mosaic; gloomy and radiant nuances.
Hopscotch on damp and dry leaves,
Crunchy mornings on forsaken alleys.
Steps. One hundred counted from the back door
Up to the end of the garden
Overlooking the spumy cliffs, the unsettled ocean,
The Utopian horizon.
I could live a lifetime in this period.
Carrying sand in rusty wheelbarrows, building curvy,
Smooth paths for worn bones and weary soles.
I only feel my lower back after I pick up
Full buckets of plums. No waste of nature's gifts.
No mockery of unasked for lavishness.
The vibrant fire flickers creatures on the walls at night;
The scalding terracotta is a bliss for icy, cracked hands.
When the wind grumbles its universal and mysterious refrain,
The magic chime hung on front of the entrance door
Has the power of a sleeping pill.
I could live a lifetime in this numb acceptance.
The route back is an amnesia, an unsolvable one.
Care my fingers, darling, from their inclinations I propel
A baggage of perishable fragments,
Onerous and ill-starred youth,
In a pencil tip.
Disregard this. An autumnal anxiety.
The grapes are matured, the squeezed juice is sweet.
A full chalice, accompanied by a fresh
Cheese and rice pie.
I collect rigorously every droplet of primeval light
From your right eye.
My confidant, my time passes defiant solitude.
The photo's source