POEMS/ Losing the Light
Losing the Light
The leaves of my Japanese maple fell together last night
to a ground surface crusted with clumps of compost,
covering the broken green stalks of my last pink phlox.
As lost as anything can be, the sun refused to light my early
morning walk. I’ve come to understand how much light matters,
how much mind and body need the warmth and comfort
of those long warm days, days before my fingers
begin to ache as the temperature went down. Light wakes
the mind, holds opens the doors of the memory bank.
On those shorter days the mind dims, flickers,
the body groans and creaks, fingers and legs rebel,
demand thicker mittens, fleecy hats, wool lined boots.
It’s not that I’m giving in, not that I keep on yearning
for what I can no longer have. It’s just that the red maple leaves
are scattered on the ground this morning outside my window
as if a hand with razor blade had methodically sliced each one off,
just that the tree without them is so gray, so cold and dark.
Mountain Troubadour, 2015
The leaves of my Japanese maple fell together last night
to a ground surface crusted with clumps of compost,
covering the broken green stalks of my last pink phlox.
As lost as anything can be, the sun refused to light my early
morning walk. I’ve come to understand how much light matters,
how much mind and body need the warmth and comfort
of those long warm days, days before my fingers
begin to ache as the temperature went down. Light wakes
the mind, holds opens the doors of the memory bank.
On those shorter days the mind dims, flickers,
the body groans and creaks, fingers and legs rebel,
demand thicker mittens, fleecy hats, wool lined boots.
It’s not that I’m giving in, not that I keep on yearning
for what I can no longer have. It’s just that the red maple leaves
are scattered on the ground this morning outside my window
as if a hand with razor blade had methodically sliced each one off,
just that the tree without them is so gray, so cold and dark.
Mountain Troubadour, 2015
