The afternoon holds just enough. Life and dying, Should be familiar In the narrow, empty spaces Hiding, In the confusing mass of briars, And dried or mildewed berries: Take your pick. Meanwhile, the shadowed visitors of place Sneak back home.
Somewhere, this stretch of time, Memories turn, Stretch further, Longer Than the stories Our present circumstances Used to elaborate: The corner of life is turned. In some broad, sweeping arc The faithful penciller of years Buries a dozen tin cans Across the drying field.
The day's path gives a ride A good long while, Moving, really moving along. The time, like the knob of some old radio, Cranking slowly one way, At once fading and boisterous.
Nobody talks about this stuff, Like politics and newcomers, Poking, Unless we can all turn askew, Upwards. All of us. 'Cause we all see the center from afar.
Sam A. Flanagan