An elegy of sorts

In these ending days

I can’t be angry anymore

Can’t hold it against Ohio, West Virginia, Michigan

Or the old man, huddled with fear

And the raging impotence of mortality

 

I prefer to think of mountains

Peaks and gullies, stones and ice

A wildflower perched precarious in granite

And distant ridgelines hazing unclimbed

 

And the dogs I’ve known

Or haven’t yet known

(and this makes me ache, for they are all good dogs)

 

And the streams and rivers pouring into the world

Running and flowing and carving

Trout dappled against the rippling light

Uncaught still

 

And books I’ve read or thought to read

Lists I’ve kept of tasks undone

Small accomplishments in checked boxes

 

And the naming of places

Spain, Morocco, Patagonia

Tanzania, a delightful mix of syllable

 

And the sound of baseball on the radio

(which we all know is better than television)

 

And that feeling of running in twilight

Deepening dark against the lit up houses

People unknown making dinner or love or conversation

Passing door by door

Until at last, home.

6 thoughts on “An elegy of sorts

Add yours

  1. Passing the torch, so to speak, of righteous revolution in the name of love tolerance and freedom, to those who come after our sturdy energy has passed off into age and contemplation of our rocky home against the vastness of the sky.

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