A Certain Slowness of Speech
Such a long life yet so little time to stay up
through the night awaiting that moment
the owl leaves its tree
to alight on the eaves.
I’m certain even my slowness of speech,
though it wishes to leave nothing out, amounts to
passing a hand
through an ocean’s incoming wave.
A few friendships remain, each one a pardon,
but not one soul knows that place in the creek
where I stood, age nine,
having survived my old life.
After two days of rain, the clover heads whiten
in the midday heat while I search through a book
for a thought I once had
in response to a certain word.
So difficult to know an end is drawing near when
all I wish to do is follow how the wind suspends
the cedar limbs
and then amends where it has been.