This bright and breezy autumn in Massachusetts,
Plopped down at the edge of the continent,
We look to blue sky now, beginning again
On some journey across still-green fields.
But that is fine. We are already on our way.
Until at rest we bring the bitter day
To a sweeter end on compassionate thoughts,
We gather all losses there to break
A new dawn, a new estimation of things.
Perhaps even a discussion of the paucity of language,
The way I'll attempt to describe the grackle at my windowsill,
Feeding on Kansas-grown, utility-grade sunflower seed,
All black and shiny like his eyes. He pecks away
At the green feeder in the burnt-orange light of an October Sunday.
You bet the range of time on things that mattered, after all.
You worked for wages of sweat and sawdust and now your
Feet stride across bayberry, sage, clove, and heather.
Now that time and times are done, and after that, and even after that,
The granite boulder will still still itself among the oaks.
Like a proper thought, it will continue to make no note of itself.
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