Blue and gold day. Sharp clear sky.
Late August: time is racing by.
Long dark shadow fingers loom
so early now each afternoon
that I am torn: should I lie down
in your arms in our dim bedroom
and miss a precious hour of sun
when it is also wholly true
that I long to lie with you
and spend an hour – more- in the mesh
of arms and legs, mouths, breath, and flesh?
Still, if I choose to raise my head
from the activities in bed
and look out at the cedar tree,
light slants. Time’s moving visibly.
Red sunset. Misty morning sky.
The rhythm of the everyday.
The septic tank, the labyrinth –
both new and both as old as myth:
improvisations in the groove
habit and terror, work and love
have worn in us. Or last week’s trench –
first to locate a sewage stench
(we walked for decades on old shit
but till now barely noticed it),
then excavate and then replace,
fill up the hole and plant new grass.
Replacement happens for a reason.
Time presses. All things have their season.
Red alert: two dead leaves fall.
The pandemic drapes its pall.
Also by Rachel Hadas (see all)
- Voyage - March 2, 2023
- Though Much Is Taken, Much Abides:Fifteen Years of Literature & Medicine - May 22, 2022
- The Labyrinth, the Septic Tank - October 30, 2021