To be free and out of doors—
Under wings, above the floors
Of faux linoleum and lint,
Knee-high in wild sage and mint,
Carousing memories impress
upon—a rausch, resplendent eveningness
Uncanny umbers, graven greens
I see but don’t know what they mean.
To eat this planet with an eye
As day and night entwine in sky,
How hours drift like vagabonds
From me to sweeter echelons,
For soon the beasts nocturnal ride
Insisting I return inside,
At once content and mourning changes
Comes the end and rearranges.
I was summer, holding fast—
The fool of youth—I could not last,
For here we grovel before Death
Awaiting the next baby’s breath
To break the spell of dreamless slumber,
Woe to she who holds us under
Rock and root—I smell the sun—
Oh, welcome light! Our prize, hard won.
Image: Monet, Claude. Path Under the Rose Arches. 1918-24.
Impolitic 