by
Nadia Herman Colburn
The
road reminds us nothing remains itself:
cucumber
burrs around the dark rough trunks
clasped
twirling in the leaves, new mosses
climbing
over gray, exposed roots,
and,
through the open plain,
grasses
that make demands like a dog
whimpering.
Later may come
concrete
blocks and strip malls,
but
the desired stillness never appears.
The
copper autumn leaves,
once
lost, point back only
to
a dirty, fingered oblivion.
Don't let the glass mark the
table top,
take your foot off the chair.
These
things assume relationships,
like
geese, cawing into spring,, shitting
on
the front lawn, rising,, riding
the
air, flapping into that beautiful V,
always
getting it almost right.