start again

the leaves have been orange for weeks
and they trip over each other
on their way to
wherever they end up.

I feel like I should know this.
poets are supposed to know these things.

But I honestly have no idea
what happens to the leaves when they die
where they will go where they're gone from here.

They go to the ground
and after that
I don't know.

a saturday off

I wrote yesterday.
finally.

behind the foundry

there's a pavilion
by the river
if you can call it a river
behind the coffee shop
the third coffee shop
that I've counted
next to the old country antique store
that is still an old country antique store
even though the foundation is crumbling
and I've never seen another person in there
besides the owner -

there's a spot
on this pavilion
where the fence is broken
and I have a three foot wide
unobstructed view
of the water
as it rushes in the spring
after it tires of being snow
in the summer it skips and jumps
over rocks in its way
and by fall
it grows weary of traveling
it talks and talks and talks
then sleeps a while
until it wakes again next spring
and it all starts over again.

the water doesn't care
for troubles-
it doesn't have the time
for pain
or sorrow
it only wants to move
and roll
past me
on the pavilion
by the hole in the fence
where I can see everything

leaving me behind.

and tomorrow is October

I had such hopes for today.
This afternoon,
I thought
I would spend writing
editing the next
great American novel
that I have yet to coax into a second draft.

"I will write."
I thought.
"I will write
and create -
sit in quiet
with only the brook for company."

But I grabbed the wrong notebook
the one where I had drafted
that letter
and saved the final copy
the letter to the community
last year
when I thought the world would end
after I knew about Lauren
before I knew about Ben
and I wouldn't have minded
the world ending then
everything was so cold
and dark
and I wondered
if the light would ever find us
show us what we were missing
while we were missing
who we missed.

But it started before the notebook
before my hand took liberties
made my handwriting
unrecognizable.

It started before I'd ordered my coffee
even as I started up the hill from the car
my mind already awash with new thoughts.

I might have still been on the highway
wondering if it always took this long
to get here
to the brook and the trees
and the rocks across the water.

It may have started that morning.
It's been nearly ten months now
and I still ache
for some sort of reconciliation
as if I have something
to admit
to confess
that I still feel guilty
for greiving
people I didn't know
and barely knew
so much so
that I don't create new memories
with people who are here.
I just hide in the shade
by the brook
down the hill from the cafe
where the coffee is always fresh
but never tastes the same way twice
and the country store
that is somehow still open
after everything.

Yes. I had such hopes of writing today.

It's too bad.

I won't do any of that now.