Weeks or Months

How long will it be?
We have been watching the moon
which waxes and wanes and
renews itself and brings,
usually, decent fortune

We have boarded the plane
taken seats by the window
settled in for a movie
preparation is done

I read the journal back to front,
an order that makes sense
to a brain most intent
on knowing endings

How long now?
Until life has changed enough that
the current era is only be seen by
standing at the window,
looking through a glass

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The Community Garden

It is not what you expect to find
after trekking uphill five blocks
in the Japanese District after a
hot day in the city. It smells like
compost tumbling over itself
here on the side of the hill,
is strewn together good enough
with spare wood, multi-multi-use
buckets and laminated signs
some person with a printer
tacked to tree trunks to guide
visitors toward an exit; yes,
wabi-sabi enough to get lost.
It is how we ran our land when
I was young, making do with
parts of things and scraps and
pieces of other things. I forget
the city outside. Chicken coop
signs (please do not feed us rice),
sunflowers grown beyond a
hand’s span whose peach fuzz
necks bow to watch weeds sustain
this morsel of wild in the city,
now I barefoot along stone steps,
toe my way down the other side,
find a sitting-rock in the orchard
and do that a while among this
stench of four-days-fallen apples
and flies on a summer afternoon
and when I am done scribbling
memories search for more to do,
for more to think about, perhaps
another reason to stay put.

(August 27, 2019)

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