over the Park
a Magritte sky
gather in an old oak
to discuss this,
fly off at the approach
of a black lab
in imagined freedom.
Musicians have a clock
that runs on its own time
and all that is constant
is the beat, in four
They start, they say,
when the music
is ready, never before
and music is fickle:
tonight it wanted to sit
off stage and rest
an hour, another night
it begins precisely
and it ends, always
after the last note
He would rather be from somewhere.
Where he is or is not going
matters very little to him now,
he will be where he will be, will go
where he needs or wants to go
or is taken, and when there,
that is where he should be, so
being there is no problem.
But until recently he was from
nowhere and that is not
a comfortable place, it is
really no place at all.
Now, at least, he is half
from somewhere certain, and
the other half at least fits
on a small portion of a map
and somewhere, he will gladly
tell you, is so very much
better than nowhere, for somewhere
can be found if you have the right map.
We love the flower, more so
if it adopts the brighter shades
of nature’s palette, and even
tolerate the fern, but only if
it truly honors the greens
it is supposed to bear and unfurl.
We save our spite for the fungus
which reaches up to us
with surprising haste, nothing
this day, fully formed tomorrow
as if to suggest a resurrection
from something dark and dank
hidden below the surface.
Still, we turn our back on it,
wish it gone, find it ugly
and never pause to wonder how it
views us in the early light of morning.
He is certain he has the answer
and is imply waiting for someone
to ask the correct question.
He knows he cannot be wrong
For if the answer seems so
it is only because the wrong
question was asked, and that
would hardly be his fault.
He tells people this, asking
that they carefully consider
what the right question would be.
Eventually someone always
gets it right, merely asks
“Are you crazy?” to which
he responds, “isn’t it obvious?”
If you’ve been paying attention,
you already know that I
have always hated Latin, and not
merely because I never took it, but
because I grew tired of being told
to seize the day. It wasn’t like I
could put a leash on it – time tends
not to remain static, and since it
has no legs, it certainly doesn’t march.
Mostly, it’s all I can do to get through
a day, chasing after it as best I can,
and though I’ll never catch it, I
can follow in its wake, never looking
back or too far forward but never,
ever making haste quickly or otherwise.
The hawks have been circling
more frequently of late,
but in the early autumn laziness
of merely riding the breezes
that seem to pick up in the mornings,
before the midday sun bids them
be calm so it can make its transit.
By afternoon, they tend to roost
high up in the giant pines, peering
down as the flow of people flows
along the paths seeking to grasp
the fading warmth and last blooms
for a few moments longer, and
as evening approaches the hawks
take flight again, knowing the moon
can move the tides, but is powerless
to change the winds which blow
when and where their sky mother chooses.