“I don’t have time,” I told
myself, “to kill myself: I have
to write a paper on Rimbaud.” Which even
at the time I thought funny.
Those were the days I could hardly tell
the difference between hospital and classroom
and walking the dog at 1 A.M.
seemed the only way to preserve an illusion
of balance. Which it did.
Well, that was a long time ago.
Such different tempi now:
as Joel prods the slow,
private smolder in the pile of damp brush, releasing
wisps of blue smoke to waver in air,
the mountain stream pelts over stones, wrinkling silver, frothing lace,
ripping laughter out of its own current while
silently moss pries the terrace flagstones apart
and cloud shadows race across the meadow, chased
by slashes of sunlight. In the daffodil spears
thrusting up through dead leaves,
each stalk swells with the pulse of a blossom-to-be.
This is drawn from “Hindsight.”
