Tag Archives: Autumn

September 23, 2008

On this September evening

I dip my pen into the black

molasses of an inkwell,

straighten the corners of my curling yellow parchment,

and slide my flickering candle of memory

an inch closer on the rough-hewn wooden table.

A drop of hot wax pleads with my thumb

for attention

while my thoughts drift with the cool breeze

that wanders through the open window,

becoming lost in the swirl of the distant pulse

of Latino music with the somewhat closer swells of

Puccini

and the faint silver clatter and crystalline laughter

from the Italian sidewalk cafe

across my little street.

 

Yes, on evenings such as these

I forget about the busy week ahead and

the busy day behind and

my phoenix of a to-do list.

I forget that I have no quill–

not even a fountain pen–

but a Dell

with cable internet.  No, instead

I prefer to remember the leafy archway, the

occasional loose cobble

as I walked on the local campus–

its agora unfolding before me–

and sat on the broad lamplit steps,

feeling neither warm

nor cool,

with a smattering of students reading,

talking quietly, and simply doing

nothing

as dusk slipped into night

on this nascent autumn day.

 

Setting down my pen and noticing

one thumb red from hot wax

the other smudged sable with words not yet written,

I hope to keep this glassy pond of a evening

somewhere not far, so that some day hence

as I dip my crusty loaf into a small dish of smooth ripe olive oil

at an outdoor cafe

or as I hear a tenor across the

alley while I cut a slippery mango in the kitchen,

I might remember the flickering of this stubby candle

and then

take a moment to sit down on the mossy bank and,

thumb still slightly aching,

look at the water with not even a

ripple.

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Filed under Blogging introspection, Poetry