Dragging last autumn's dry grey leaves
from their almost resting place under the apple tree
I panicked. Raking is hilarious (to trees
and everything else), but I was excited to imagine
this endless engine of debris as my enemy.
Who makes enemies of apple trees?
In horror, I threw down my rake and ran to Costco
to buy new tires. Watching the swarm of our bodies
at the food counter made me think about
what we're doing, here -- you know,
not in the moments of fervour that sometimes gush
like highlights of a career, or falling in love,
the kick that throws us to the curb or churns a poem,
our pleas and moments of rage; but rather,
everything else: eating, waiting, gathering, playing
uncertain roles in the stories we find ourselves in.
Every so often finding a way out of the box,
poking a finger into the maw of god
whether she's a slug or some certain sensation
in my cerebral cortex. The finger goes in
and I am eaten suddenly, unexpectedly, fantastically.
Whimsically. A difficult thread to hold, the rot erupting
abruptly like gold, like lasers in the night, like beauty
on a public bus. Like the bottom of a box of old papers
in a basement rotted from unwanted water.
We're all buried there. The smell of the old leaves.
A spring reunion.
The rot under the tree by Michael Lithgow | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
