ARRHYTHMIA

Life ought be little more than
arrhythmic motion, a path
we only want to straighten,
to smooth, its natural, necessary
twists and bumps somehow,
for we always see them as
impediments not moments
of joyous indecision where
there are no wrong choices
for each choice unfolds
a new path never trodden,
never imagined or foreseen.

A bird flies to where it needs
to be, but for most that are
not migrating, that place
isn’t known until arrival and
even then, save for nesting,
it is the right place only for
a day, a week, a month
or perhaps only a moment,
for a bird knows only this
moment and this until
there are no more moments.

THE FOG

I speak to my father
every week or so
our conversations are
as long as ever
but we are rapidly becoming
little more than
a skipping record.
He mostly recalls my name
and the various parts
one with the other of us
has had rebuilt
but even that is quickly
slipping into the fog
that is rapidly settling over him
and we both know
of the one part
for which there is
no repair or replacement.