I sit on the bench beneath the oak
watching squirrels dig before the frost
listening to their calls
carried by echoes from one end of the pavement to the other
I watch the leaves change
Like all things
Slowly, slowly
and all at once
smouldering at the edges for weeks
and in a moment catching fire
blazing at the core
I smell the salt of the bay
caught and lofted by the first winter’s gale
the sulfur of the tide
the bluefish in the eelgrass
and across the ocean.
Across the ocean and through the sea
No
Not right now,
not today
not when the sun sets before his time
Sometimes I pray,
though I think I pray all the time
that the small flame in my chest
will not be put out in a moment’s repose
that exhaustion won’t consume us
that we won’t be too tired for the truth
that the hope I have
strapped to my back,
baked by the heat of your kiss,
by the steam
pouring off your body
will last the forty years and
however many weeks
it takes to slay a giant
That my bruised arms will hold you
Like you once held me
On the eighth day
Before,
before
before the flood
before the raven and the dove
flew beyond my sight
to run and to return
swirling on the currents
hovering above the deep
Only to plunge
Together
