Nothing More Than

Taking the trash outside
near midnight, and a warm breeze lifts 
the ends of my hair. Somewhere
behind cobblestones of cloud,
the moon has risen. Rain
from earlier in the day has dissipated,
its only trace in large puddles
at intersections where water fights
to find an exit through asphalt.

This is the kind of quiet in which
one might mistake any shift
in the atmosphere as a message
about one's destiny— Sorrow
and remonstrance at the passage
of time; the piercing tenderness of small
sounds in darkness conveying all manner 
of memories dredged up from an interior sea . 

Trees beginning to tip with green. 
A door somewhere opening to the un-
fathomable. I touch a link in the chain,
one narrow length of greying wood 
among others in the fence, waiting for 
the right word to nuzzle against my hand.  

What does one say to break 
the spell? The sound of an engine
accelerating. Garlic and onions 
sizzling in a pan on the stove.
The click of my heels on tile after I 
come back across the threshold. 

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.