What kindling love is this that sanctifies the earth
with memories proliferating like the grave
turning of a second birth? What enterprising arms
disseminate their charms like seeds on fallow fields
to function as a lavish yield for autumn’s harvest?

Suspended on such tensile roots, they bring forth fruits
which thrive on sappy juices of their germinating tree –
if just to nurture offshoots for posterity.
But what use cultivating heartbreak’s fertile soil,
that promises abundance from such husbandry?

Tears scarcely save the desiccated oak, nor does grief
breathe life into a reverie. Then pity us who savor solace
in the eulogies assuring us that death is just a passing.
For with this ever passing hour, when time sits still
and time is never-ending, then this and every passing
is an everlasting death.

Though it’s no mace, but cell phone in my hand,
I’d like to favor you. But I’ve a slew
of messages whose import countermand
desires of my awestruck retinue
who pass me with petitions on the street.
Because of this, I claim the royal right
to read my e-mail following a tweet
to devotees while you keep me in sight.
Indeed, not only are my hands not free,
but texting makes it difficult to turn,
acknowledging those holding doors for me.
Thus, I can’t give the gratitude you yearn
for who suppose a royal highness grants
indulgence to her abject sycophants.

They fall like toy sentinels, one by one,
before the entrance to the battered door
that traps in heat and keeps away the hoar
frost of impending grief. Youth’s taped rerun
of first bliss is worn. Spring’s warm, schoolmarm sun
now sports the wan demeanor of a store
clerk. Life grants me just enough light to pore
over receipts before the workday’s done
and the store closes. Former bustling streets
are empty and their neon signs torn down
along with delis selling ice and sweets.
Grown kids have moved their own kids out of town.
I’m at the crossroads where the graveyard meets
the grandson in his graduation gown.

Wild Transitions Contents