Sunday, April 14, 2019

Failing Light




In the failing light of a November evening,
kicking through the rotting leaves on a suburban path,
I remember you, digging the garden ridges, shaking out
the groundsel, tossing the stones under the hedge.

Great events in your kingdom were scurryings in the grass,
a thrush feeding on a worm, raindrops falling from the apple trees.
Far from inspectors and reports, you held sway over
the straightening of ridges, regiments of onions and lettuces.

With each passing year, you are buried deeper beneath memory,
becoming ever more intangible, like these rotting leaves
that leave only their scent hanging in the dank November air;
after all this time, you have become more like a book I once read.

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