s u m m e r
maple tree
The maple moves gently in the dry heat. A soft breeze blows the seeds we used to collect and call "helicopters" into my hands and loose hair. From the bough of this tree I can see all that I've missed.
I can see the dust spinning 'round over sidewalks and rusty play ground toys, the color stripped away, the kids have gone home and it's getting on toward dark.
I can see.
See houses with lights on in them and warm rooms and supper tables set with well tendered meals from caring hands.
Over the tracks I still waver at the warehouses. I want to go there but I know I won't anymore. No more than I'll climb down this tree and spin on the merry-go-round.
My hands are dry and white, cracked from the gasoline that leaked from Robert's old Ford tractor. My hands shook as I put the glass carburetor bowl back on and snapped it into place. I felt misguided knowing what I knew.
Knowing how well placed a .303 can be, how powerful the round, how destructive.
This afternoon for a moment my heart grew warm as I realized parts to the sum of all things.
Bad things to such good people.
goodnight 4.11.00