Secretly, a Two-Way Street.
All’s quiet on the northern front,
or relatively so: besides the occasionally
clip-clopping shoe, the randomly-pounded
doors across the street, and that steady,
rhythmic, late-night clanging that’s been
going on a week. But mostly it’s Creeper slapping
against the iron rail, and the too-soon-redness
of that single maple tree’s leaves which skitter
the wrong-way down the road, the last hanging-on
bits of glass chiming-in the brusquely blowing
call of autumn. All’s receding by the tug of the
harvest moon: it’s singular wide face smiling
as if to say we’re done, hang it up and hibernate.
All of me is quiet, but not still and not asleep. Too
long-stagnated, the baby and the bathwater
must now go to the birds. Build hovels if you like
but I’m not going to say goodnight, nor yet goodbye.
All’s booming with thunder, all’s frisson and
feeling: that surety of feet on a still-green
woodland trail, still fresh and spring-y.
That certainty is brand-new pulsing in my veins.