White Pine

The telling drifts
like cities out of sequence,

a shoebox holding ticket stubs
stamped with date and time--
 

winter will be colder this year. 

 

You watch the drift of a bird

on windless days, knowing it waits

a shift of wind, a breeze like music
that anticipates then fades—

Befriending of flesh before it dies,

is there a name for that?  A constant? 
Trying not to change the words (although I could),
if they happened at all,

holding to what holds us:

a drift of music,

a box of ticket stubs,

confusing the finding with a loss.

 

                                                                                           11/25/2012