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 of an 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 

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Maybe the oak knows our secrets, but the willow weeps for us, as Chad and Jeremy once sang.
I often sit and contemplate a matter...not really knowing what's the matter.
You really created a mood here.
j.

[Chris]

July, 2004... sounds like a beginning being accepted. Seems our thought are our own and most remain unheard or unheralded. I like your "presence".

[Ayvid N]

We often question our substance, our gathered weight after all the years. Sometimes we feel that we cannot compare with even the smallest members of nature. The downward slide goes on and the chances of it keep fading. Perhaps, man's allowed span is just too brief. Beautifully written.

[Vol]

Thanks, Divya!
Many years ago, I was introduced to something the Navajo say as a greeting, "Walk in Beauty." It is also their "good-bye." Once in awhile I get caught up, but not nearly often enough. When I do, I try to write about it.
Vol

[Ayvid N]

You're most welcome, Vol.

[Lorry]

I too enjoy watching the world from the comfort of my veranda, which is really just my back garden, but luckily there is enough wildlife in the pines and firs to keep me both entertained and wondering. Sometimes I even pause mid thought as I see a squirrel from the corner of my eye, which always plays the mission impossible theme in my head jukebox, as it scurries hither and thither, with its acrobatic and devil may care lifestyle.
Up until recently we had a family of owls that kept us entertained with their rudimentary language of twit and twoo, but they have been replaced with far more vocal types, who do love a good old sing song.
Next time I see them, I shall ponder what they may ponder of me.

[Vol]

I walked ut to my veranda this morning and thought, "MAN! I've gotta clean up my yard!"