Monday, October 31, 2011

On Being in the Middle of a Time

Though light is fading
and the dogwood tree is budding
with red berries seen
never in seasons past,
(I wasn't there
or I didn't care
to notice.)
The world stays blue
less some green from weeks before,
Then turns white,
premature grey in an animal
that's no longer at-party,
Not-here, anyway.

Dark times dark,
Times of gathering clouds
like the scratchy old Fred Waring record
played for a generation now gone
to bring hope in times of war.

No war really now.
Just times.
No song no theme no real public expression
of hope do I hear in my house
on the street in the air
on the horizon.
What then?
What are we to do now
that we won't recognize
what is all about
and cannot be denied?
Like an odorless mist that not marked
does not pass for that

A pie bakes in the oven of history
whether Grandma Grumpmedia tends to it
or no.
We must be allowed to smell its smell,
Savor the anticipation,
Pile the plates and forks
the community meal.

We teeter on the edge of time
and generations to follow
will think something
or nothing
while we moulder under freshly mowed
for the birds,

Unbidden and unable
to do more for the future
than we have.
We live today.
So now,
Not never.

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