The blowsy exhibition of crumbled maple leaves befuddles low gutters
as tangled tumbleweeds of wisteria are strangled with a pickaxe to lower quarters.
Famous sayings go unnoticed in the swept-up trash.
Rolling along without governance or sway,
we get blinded by jitters and old romances fading into mutual mundanity.
There are no perfect ways to let on that slowly dying
is now hastily approaching a coup of the spirit.
A dogwood is decomposing in the side yard
just south of the poverty line,
while a roving Golden Retriever harasses a few lilies of the concrete
shyly sprouting from the sidewalk’s indiscretions.
Some simple rain tries out its patter on parked cars,
and smooths some creases in a surface clean.
Mushed ocher and umber gatherings of plastic bags
and fallen petals
hold what a mind merely traces
like when your grandparents made you hot chocolate
and you knew the comfort
of that hardscrabble scent would last
until you knew nothing would.
A kind voice says, “Here you are,”
and you hold on,
to what never keeps.
Watch the columbines huddle and nest below the dripping eaves.
Soak it all in,
sheltered to a lovelier arrest.
Feel free while you still can.