Solitude in the afterain


On the kitchen table

the green roses show signs

of wilting, and those three

deer from the backyard didn't

return tonight. It has rained

all day. The ditches overflow

now, late into the evening.

I meditate to go beyond

where sleeping pills fail, and

the mind stays true to elevation.

I think about the things I've read.

Whitman, Kerouac, cummings, Emerson

and even Raymond Carver. I collapse

into their melodies, like falling into

the clover patch. I evaluate the moon.

Too soon the sun will rise, and dry

the puddles in back of the big garage.

The living room window is open to usher

in 4 A.M. I divorce myself from staying

alert. If I drift to pine lined valleys

below the snow-capped mountaintops. Then

thought will be a whirlwind dying. On

the kitchen table, a green petal has fallen.

It makes a sound softer than all eternal

whispers. I pull a book down from the oak shelf.

My old self crumbles into ash. This is how it is

in the afterain. Silence is returning.