WEBVTT

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This poem is a reflection
upon following poem.

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I'm awfully sorry to
have to get serious

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but I think it's time I did.

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This poem is about the necessity
for discovering your condition

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on earth called turnings.

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And it's in short sections.

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I am thinking my room
is green, the sea green,

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the grass outside my house, I
may have caught a touch of it,

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the grass and the
sea renew themselves,

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my room remains constant,
I am changing in it.

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The odor of an afternoon
long ago comes back

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in a fragrance of wet grass, I
don't know what to do with it,

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I can't remember
when it happened,

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I know it was intended as a
happy afternoon, I let it pass.

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When I ask who I am, I think
of a river with its changing

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clouds, I think of the
clouds and sometimes

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of a leaf upon the waves.

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It was raining the day the
world was born for me, as I

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stood in a hallway
out of the wet

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and stared at the bubbles
bursting upon pavement,

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leaves gold, red, brown,
black falling children

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walking to school, their
arms and bracing books.

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I began as a tree and
now feel the weight

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and think height nothing
compared to the burden of self.

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I am a cover up for death,
my veins, my credentials,

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the figure is made.

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In the morning, sun, the
leaves fall yellow, pale green,

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and wine.

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The tree as mythical giants,
tall as mythical giants,

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silent and standing still.

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Wind blow this leaf
brown and skeletal,

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leaf be lost in the
woods turn to mold.

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Leaf, is there a death?

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Have I lived?

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That door is closed, you
turn around and walk straight

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through the woods
until you reach

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a pond turning blue, gray,
white, and sunset red,

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the crickets.

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You will want to sleep,
calm as the black pond,

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the stars will have
spread a cover.

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There was a vase that
waited for water, there

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was the film that formed
upon the idle pond,

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there was the vase
drying in the sun.

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It is a silent pond
surrounded by silent woods

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and shore, no animal
or man in sight.

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Here, as a child,
I tossed my pebble

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and now my stone and the ripples
fade, my glance as vacant

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as the smoothness of the pond.

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In a clearing, you left
behind a house itself.

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You remember having
closed it leaving

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to visit another place and
a further clearing only

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to count the rooms
and the minutes?

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The door is closed.

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You remember closing
it and walking off

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into the woods, your
goods upon your back?

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Does the leaf have courage?

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Does the tree express a defiance
each stage of its decay?

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The door opens inward
on silent forms,

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the door swings outward on a
trembling leaf, buildings rise

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and light.

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I was found leaning forward when
I died, my body, like a wave,

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above the shore.

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