Why search purposefully fabricated, lying walls,
That trashy sweet gum, this August depletion;
Listening for the….A…purveyor of truth?
Again, I enact this sweet, silencing ritual
With little nuance; certainly with no perfection.
With paper…neatly creased, and pen gently held
I smile, waiting for Muse to tweak the light.
Muse is our deliverance…or…our false prophet;
Which? “Ignorance is bliss.” Just give me light!
Scattered Spirea blaze reddish/gold,
flaming space-heater globes, warming
my brown garden iced by lethargic air.
If I lie naked among them could I thaw,
and seep to meld with nourished root
capillaries spiraling to a fruitful place
of spring stirrings and glorious blooms?
∞
Could I, in late March break ground,
a green sliver twisting to light only,
sated with discernment of all things,
yet ordained by the flow only to flow;
a Buddha sitting under The Tree of Life,
hands cupped, not in prayer, but empathy?
I read his obit today; the who
what where when but not the how.
I had missed him, felt his absence
But put it down to his capriciousness.
Last week, his body, such as it was,
Was found, fittingly, behind the file
Marked “Lost and Found”
Beside the head librarian’s desk;
A feeble attempt at humor, as was,
The hand-lettered sign strung round
His neck by string, naming him….Muse.
Cause of his passing was indeterminable
Due to the condition of the form.
I suspect years of abuse at the hands
Of the likes of me and the laureates.
No charges were filed:
There was too little evidence
Or too many possible suspects;
It was all unclear. The case is closed.
•
Plans for internment will be announced
When a proper eulogy can be obtained.
Belated Words 