Me Too!

Me too! The apparently burnished sky, polished, cold. Deft wind-knives fleecing clouds while something very old, some unspoken heirloom now nudges consciousness like a boat nudging a wharf in the restive capriciousness of rising and falling bodies politic of water. Because what does the dark green business of water have to do with an accidental issue, the nudge, nudge, nudge of boat against pier? Where sun is significant, period, on flat red paint? To do with fluttering late October leaves on tree against blue sky? Level the interrogative lift: it's in the nature of things.

But no... it is a stimulant to the feeling-tones of memory, and memory is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier. Catch it then, perform an adroit intercept: Not so much the beckoning of the tree to geese in skeins loosely V'd, aimed North from the old South Bow: not so much a reckoning up of the luck of leaves, all lightly clucking tongues: of beckoning the bestower of these image-stowaways up in racks of still-decked twigs, tugged; no. But a deft and subtle guide, framed in the rear-view mirror, signaling a subtle teleology of backing out the soul: midwife signaling the driver of the rig from its tight parking spot to wider highways, here. Not there where the honking arrowhead has gone: Here, where old backyards proffer their gifts still dripping with mystery. The wit's end of history the chroniclers forgot. Right? Wrong? Directing the soul to higher highways, old semaphores of October tree. Here, where I am layed out long, alive: aliver: me.