This is me,
sitting here and listening to the geese call
in the steel gray morning sky, pajama clad and coffee drinking
lamenting the dirty dishes and the words I have to write
and the future I have always been able to predict,
standing here at the window, this is me, listening
to the crow call in the front yard,
watching the fire maple majestic littering the ground,
the coldest October, giving into the rain,
the fire leaves litter the wet sidewalk, it is beautiful — we are in mourning.
This is me in the afternoon, sun soaked and watching the cat sleep, puffball paws, clawless
and waiting on the clock tower,
stretching, both of us, towards heaven.
There were imaginary times when things were perfect, I reminisce, I am nostalgic — imaginary times are hard to forget.
I write them down.
At twilight I have found a small rowboat, gray and tied to the dock, I throw the rope into the bottom
and cast off into the water,
it is glass,
the ripples my hand makes shocking,
the pink of the clouds
mirrored bits of heron float by.
This is me at midnight…I am a ghost who hears the living, fractured musical divine.
The original The Swan Song is here.