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.