Stolen Gratitude
for Edward Hirsch
I lie on my side in the half mown lawn,
a rim-shot of kisses in slow motion
as if I consumed the entirety
of some else’s dream. (Have you noticed
how even the eggs have been down-sized?)
Strange to be out here at mid-day, this hour
when the soul is weightless
yet strains against an unlikely tether.
(Did you read about the toddler boy
who wore pink to Walmart?)
Fiddle-heads and palm fronds, the gardeners’
intricate knowledge of flowers, an accurate
and authentic sentiment. (Yes, the goats
stayed on the sidewalk the whole way!)
It must have been a night like this
darkness raising a withered hand
in the dead of August. How can this wild
gratitude last? I wish to detach the slab
of memories flooding uninterrupted – perhaps
in October, when the windows are opened.
