The Sun White Citrus Collection



Friday, September 20, 2013

For RM

You used to drift off while sitting in that cherished yet faded rocking chair. All white and born. I recognized the glow – that deep, meditative glance so characteristic of your kin. The stare outside, the Eyes focused on the peculiarities of each gifted oak leaf despite the grainy, rustic veil of Rusco window.  I imagined you dreamt about beauty and decay; the border between whispered wind and endless farm labor. You called it the days of spoiled and trouble.

I accept that empty chair now, its stillness nestled in the curved alcove of your widowed bedroom. I smile to myself remembering your pale and weathered face – a roadmap sketched with wrinkled depth.  A few spider webs near each eye.

Crickets, crick, crickety crick, the gentle rock of chair.
Crickets, crick, per-snickity, snit, the gentle rock of despair.

The rock and pace.

In these occupied evenings of banking and bottom line, I think about your way. Praise and disappointment. Never tell.
I'll sleep instead, dream of electricity pulsing through livestock and the precise moments when the cock will crow,
like a runaway train without a whistle
a ship sail without a compass
a black whale approaching its birthing ground all sensitive and quiet,
intensely quiet

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