Poetry like

The watchers 

Route 50 after Bud died.

To drive down a country road Moving forward, looking back Thinking I might record the backwards motion

Yearning to stop for no reason except a still lake, except a red barn motionless, except an enormous bale of hay like a lazy good natured animal sunning purposefully.

And then returning not having done any of that but the anchor of next time drops sonorously

And, knowing suddenly (brightly like I know a death that’s come) that the trees have always been with me (in different shapes and sizes) from the very beginning the ones lining the road,  the old ones outside my children’s window, the pine trees with the pine cones that I’d never seen before (evergreen), the one that made me afraid to pull back bark, the one holding the songbirds outside my grandmother’s window in the yellow distance of the day when my knowing rose like it rises now with them

(silent swaying living watchers)


I write abecedarian sequences

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