Saturday, November 17, 2012

Everyone likes loops but
they're rare. Most of the time
when we set out for some distant point
we must retrace our steps
to see our home again.

But coming back along the same path is not
so dull as it sounds.

The sun, for one, will have shifted, dragging
its shadows along the dry winter grasses, turning the blue river violet.

The geese that were floating on their fat breasts
will have taken flight, the water that was still
will wrinkle with their stamping feet, the water
that was rushing will sit still as a sewn ribbon.

The clouds that were massing will be scattered in thin tufts,
too wispy to spin.

The muscles that felt strong will feel tired, the brutal climbs
will soften to a slow release, an endless whir, a long sighing descent.

The lazy timelessness of 2:00 in the afternoon
will stiffen by 4:30 to a race against the sinking sun.

Not everything is changed, though. The mountains, for one,
are still there, purple, silent, their broad shoulders hugging
the plains. And the men
are still playing chess
along the bank in their sweatshirts,
one more game, one more game, just one last game,
before the light goes.

No comments: