The hour glass
allows the sands to run–
it doesn’t ask
what you might want. . .
Right through
the eight-shaped bulbs
grains flow straight down,
and curve into a rounded heap,
be it
in fog light flat
or intermittent glinting
of fall’s low slung sun oblique.
The leaves
hang tentative,
stone-still or shaking there
with baited breath,
as they await great blusters
or a little whispered breeze
to tear them down,
and afford their trusty trees
the needed measure
and the pleasure
of a quiet, winter rest.
The darkness falls. . .
the layer of cells
beneath the epidermis
with its settling years and crawls. . .
Returning crows that yack their cawing,
pecking, ripping sawing selves
and at park o’er brimming garbage cans,
hold manly
territory brawls.
The stars chill bright
Orion and his twinkly belt
smack in the middle of our evening sight. . .
And me,
if not on rooting
spreading strong connecting feet,
I sink to ground
and, if lucky,
find my place
upon an upright leg
with happy, sturdy bended knee,
and palms well met
before my heart,
I conjure
whatever magic
in all this
great wide earth and sky
I’ll choose to utter
in this moment,
as my earnest winter plea.
The Danforth Anchor 