The cars go one way, the leaves another
As the wind brushes east,
Taking what the trees cast off.
I'm not quite ready, my thoughts a disorder
Of ambition unspent,
Plans beginning where I leave off.
Another rattling, shushing gust.
A Sunday alone is that uncountable blessing
At age forty-three, when my untattooed,
Childless arms reach for books, music, lunch,
In the sunlit trigonometry of home.
---------Where things make sense in terms of
What's not here.
2 comments:
Sohcahtoa
All the way to Mexico
Riding on a buffalo
That was a favorite rhyme
Your poem is much better.
Though,
Your last line leaves one to wonder.
The last line is crucial (a favorite word among Crucifictionalists). It explains the title and the word "trigonometry."
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