THE BIGGEST PARADOX
is that time
is
life and decay.
time destroys
It renews life
It is constant
As the physical act of breathing
Erasure from page 89 of Thomas Merton’s Seeds of Contemplation
I miss the fig tree
that lived by the house
my grandfather built
stumped out in its prime
to avoid roots spreading
into the cracks between
well-laid bricks
it frightened me at first
though I am trying to more succinctly identify my emotions
so maybe it wasn’t a frightening but a startling
yes that’s it
I’ll start again
it startled me at first
the clink and whir and clunk just a few yards from my sight
dawn not yet blinking its eyes opening the sash to catch a glimpse
a cart pushing past the slumbered houses blanketed cozily in ombred night
he hung from its bar one handed while picking through the grass at the medium it drew my attention standing at the doorway wondering if he too would take up the discarded stuffie and place it on my porch as if a token of thanksgiving for passing by on this tipped-scale day in June
or maybe as a blessing
The last thing I want is a public death
my last gasp while cheering from the bleachers,
or stricken in the county clerk’s queue
my car’s registration overdue.
Please don’t let me pass on a plane,
silent passenger beneath a modesty blanket,
or kept on ice for an extended leg
cruise liner at anchor in a foreign bay.
Let me not die with my boots on
while mowing the front yard,
not in my favorite Dylan concert tee
while at a music fest in Cincinnati,
I’d rather not go up in flames,
or down with the ship.
Not like Elvis, so compromised,
or Lee Harvey Oswald, televised.
I suppose I could accept dying at a dive bar, last call,
Bang a Gong blaring on the archaic jukebox,
among friends and regulars would be okay,
the wake could start without delay.
welcome back home, darling –
you look so low-carb and so sugar-free
your laughter rings so ethically sourced
your mischief – recycled and clean
don’t worry, come and see
your memories stacked in compostable packaging
do you now take your mornings decaf?
what plant milk do you take in your tea?
you keep biting your nails
I can tell that’s not real leather
have you switched to fair-trade love?
your heartbreak’s organic?
is your panic free-range?
do you ever forage for pills?
leave your shoes at the door
and your heart at your sleeve
and come to lie
down
for a while
guilt-free
Before prayers the guard gull above the terrace
clicks his Morse-code instructions:
“Time to water!”
“Time to water!”
But first I must tongue-tangle the reading
from the Book of Kings, a temple coup
and a royal murder—murdering a few
Italian words in the process.
Then later to the terrace,
in the absence of Brother Gardener,
I see the basil, gasping in thirst
after yesterday’s neglect.
A.I. tells me I should water at the base
to prevent root rot. Rutt-ro! I have been
showering this pot from above! Have I
overwatered? But this morning it looks
limp, and more urgently:
I must Stop Flowering! The white flowers are every-
where! Pinch them off immediately!
Do they truly signal the end of the plant’s
life-cycle? Have I failed in my duty,
only to present him with bitter leaves and
root rot?
I murmur a prayer to
Saint Fiacre, Padre Aubert’s garden patron:
Orate pro hoc poéta pauper,
hortulano mediocri.
Amen.
For Amanda
One step at a time, one breath at a time;
seconds down the rabbit hole,
Alice walks to Underland
with the Undertaker, hand in hand.
Constant merger with reality and dreams,
and the end becomes the beginning,
and the beginning becomes the end.
She is dying but is living:
One step, one breath, one hug, one kiss
one final moment, one last closing of the eyes.
She lets go, and he sees her off,
and a bluebird flies over the swelling sea,
and blue birds fly over the swelling sea
towards the rising sun.
a train whistle smudges the air, the mood-
