The Ordinary, and: Three Perfect Days, and: The moon, and: In the Forest

The Ordinary

It may happen on a dayof ordinary weather—the usual assembled flowers,or fallen leavesdisheveling the grass.You may be feeding the dog,or sipping a cup of tea,and then: the telegram;or the phone call;or the sharp pain travelingthe length of yourleft arm, or his.And as your life is switchedto a different track(the landscapethrough grimy windowsalmost the same thoughentirely different) you wonderwhy the wind doesn'trage and blow as it doesso convincinglyin Lear for instance.It is pathetic fallacyyou long for—the rosesnothing but their thorns,the downed leavessubjects for a body count.And as you lie in bedlike an effigy of yourself,it is the ordinarythat comes to save you—the china teacup waitingto be washed, the old dogwhining to go out.

Three Perfect Days

In the middle seat of an airplane,between an overweight womanwhose arm takes over the armrestand a man immersed in his computer game,

I am reading the in-flight magazineabout three perfect days somewhere: Kyotothis time, but it could be anywhere—Madagascar or one of the Virgin Islands.

There is always the perfect hotelwhere at breakfast the waiter smilesas he serves an egg as perfectly coddledas a Spanish infanta.

There are walks over perfect bridges—their spansdefying physics—and visits to zoosor botanical gardens where rain is forbidden,and no small child is ever bored or crying.

I would settle now for just one perfect dayanywhere at all, a day withoutmosquitoes, or traffic, or newspaperswith their headlines.

A day without any kind of turbulence—certainly not this kind, as the pilot tells usto fasten our seatbelts, and eventhe flight attendants look nervous.

The moon

has been missingfor nearly a week; andyou haven't called.

There may beno connection,but darkness

is contagiousand blood brotherto silence.

In the Forest

The trees are litfrom within like Sabbath candlesbefore they are snuffed out.Autumn is such a Jewish season,the whole minor key of it.Hear how the wind tremblesthrough the branches, vibratoas notes of cello music.Notice the tarnished coppersand browns, the piles of leavesjust waiting for burning.Though birds are no longerin hiding, though children in brightscarves are kicking the leaves,I smell the smokeand remember winter.Praise what is left.