Some late-spring, early summer days
sort of like today
Some late-morning, early afternoon times
the sonorous hush of bland garbage trucks
will steal into my window, clear
its throat politely and gently
sideslip me into a reverie.
The loosely fluttering banners of my
simple childhood, Bridgepointe Park and
Lincoln School, emerald fields and ladybugs
and pricklies, dragonflies and the overgrown
golf course, Sunday afternoon haircuts
flap in a breezy indolence of spirit.
A swollen flow of fleeting senses edges past
my dim alarm clock and my impetuous heartbeat
quietens. The ground grows nearer and
I am inclined toward an untimely rest. My
nostrils relax and fan the drying petals of
our rose and the memories trickle back
carrying sharp waters of gold and rain.
Though I am still, the lake in winter is dangerously
thin and a cauldron of sweet broth simmers,
spiced with skates and roses and the Princess
Bride. Melodies too numerous to be counted
wrought their stocky spell past summer
and life rolls on, an impassive amputee.
Manish Vij