I was not present
for the telling.
When the plague is past
there will be no dancing
in the streets.
Only an uncertain hope
and hands too tired
to hold it.
Of course
we may seek
to bend this truth to our will
deny finitude, completeness
say
this moment, this life
has drawn to a close
but I have still have
one more thing
to say.
from the shore
there is only
the uniform blackness
of sea and sky.
Water does not hold
the memory of distance
like land does.
What is here now
will be leagues away
come morning
and something else
will arrive
to take its place.
In the distance the low fire
of the oil rigs
blinks a message
to the boatman
who is walking now
along the gunwale
barefoot and untethered
as though blind
to the foaming sea
that waits
patient
at his heels.
The boat dips and sways
the arc of its light flattening
across the water
and I am consumed
by the thought
of how far
beneath and beyond me
this heaving
molten thing
extends
and how dearly
I want to cry out
into the pitch black of sea
in answer to an
ancient voice
that is calling to me.
on the internet.
He builds its shadow
in careful strokes
first green, then blue, then red.
Colours I did not know
to look for in a shadow.
When I was young
and washing paintbrushes
the water always ran
dull brown
the ugly outcome
of a meeting of lovely things.
There is a logic in this
I am sure
a rule that
given time and modesty
will reveal itself to the willing.
To see the world
for what it is made of
you must begin by
looking away.
Before the season
of resilience begins
the days of mourning
must end.
And while you know
that this is promised
to you
as it is to every other
it is so very hard
to believe.
there is a point
where one thing
becomes another.
This day turns into the next
as does this month
and every other measure
of season and state.
Fruit ripens
fruit rots.
I cut a mango open
too early
and put the halves back together
in supplication
in guilt.
Not for me
to locate the boundary
between the still here
and the now gone.
I may pass unknowing
through many a threshold
but I will know
when I have arrived
on the other side.
In the thick air of summer
I sit among friends
who have known me
in every season.
Looking up
there are no stars
but the moon is in sight.
Going to work
on the morning train
the women read
and braid their hair
and pray
keeping count
on their fingers.
They eat
a belated breakfast
and watch videos
and send messages
to other women
on other trains.
We are all going
in the same direction.
in the black of night
at the assigned hour
is not to be granted
the sight of comets
that others, elsewhere
are seeing.
No
it is not luck alone
or preparation
or goodness
that admits you
into the beauty of the world
but some other, secret thing
that looks upon you
in your waiting
and decides whether
on this night
you will be rewarded
or forsaken.
I learn of a cartographer
who walked the length
of a country
to draw its very first map.
Before this there were other
smaller maps
and pictures and fables
that spoke of the land.
But with him came science
and certainty.
The knowledge that one hand
had touched every corner
and returned to create
its image.
To draw a map
is to refuse the distance
of retelling.
Some things must be seen
to be believed.
so called
because its fruits plummet
from a great height
into the waiting ground
announcing
with a crash
its intention to persist.
How noble
to throw yourself
at certain death
hoping that what remains of you
after this violent surrender
will go further
than what came before.
and afterwards
she lay in the sun
her eyes shut
her fur golden.
Coming home
we drove over hundreds
of copperpods
being swept up
into brilliant little
piles of yellow.
On my evening run
I collected first one
then two
then eight shiuli
and put them in a small dish
to give to my grandmother.
These were the joys
I was granted today.
There will be more tomorrow.
The downstairs cat
has a swollen foot
and must be taken to the vet
to have it looked at.
He is not a beautiful animal
mangy and unwashed
but he is fed, daily
and called to
by children in their
evening play.
If he were to be hurt
as he is now
he would be put in a basket
and driven to the doctor
to have his wounds looked at
his pain seen.
It is hard to believe
that this world still has room
for gentleness.
But the cat is downstairs again
fed, cared for, healed.
is to be confronted
with the hidden geometry
of your existence.
You see now
the angle at which
you rest your feet
against the coffee table
and how accustomed your eyes
have become
to the cream of the dresser
that you once wished
was another colour.
Time now
for newness
of thought and movement and rest.
The body begins afresh
the work of finding a pattern
that will reveal itself
only in its departure.
my shoulder blades
and in my knees.
Some days it is all
I can think of
other days it is impossible
to see.
As within
so without.
The world burns
and I fall asleep
to dreams of
summer air.
The thing about pain
is that you can only carry it
for so long
before you forget
it is there.