Turning

NOTE: this poem was, I think, written one late autumn. It seems so out-of-place on this beautiful spring day. However, it is next in the collection I’m posting here, and I guess it reminds me that there are seasons within that forget and cannot see. May such “seasons” fly by in an hour or a  day!

figment of windows and tree

A lonely season,
not noted by trees,
their branches,
their leaves.
Not noted by breeze,
its heat,
its freeze.
Not noted by hills,
streams, or
migrating geese.

A season of not noting—
colors, contours,
textures and touch—
the pulse without
and within.

Voices in the distance
stir a longing unreaching,
someone’s unexpected smile
finds no one receiving.

Memorabilia when, oh,
time was life itself—
look like unsorted clutter,
knickknacks without a shelf.

Loose thread on my hem,
where’s the needle,
where’s the stitch?

A name on a postcard,
where’s the face,
where’s the face?

A sense of failed rotation
of planet Earth—
a stalling
of turning
and light.

.

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