AUBADE IN OCTOBER

 

I've missed these slow-moving autumn days,

the gray and muted morning easing

imperceptibly into afternoon, the hours,

neither short nor long, renegotiating their borders

and sovereignty among the chill mist of river,

threads of woodsmoke without source,

dogs nosing bits of earth suddenly remembered.

I've missed them in the way that I miss you,

and I miss you in ways I do not yet understand;

you who exist to me now only in the telling,

and in the silence between speech, grown longer

with age, not with hesitation but knowing.

I've missed trying to write it all down,

the familiarity of leaving for the sake of leaving,

when everywhere is suddenly north, the steady work

of window gazing, the very luxury of failing.

I've missed the leaves flaming up in their descent,

becoming as open as books, their veiny spines

withered and cracking, each life a secret

unto itself, each history whispered in passing,

each an ending, and none of them final.

THE SCENT OF THINGS

 

What I disliked most about moving into all those

different places during childhood -- houses

of family, friends of friends, or rank strangers --

was that nothing ever smelled familiar.

The dark scarred wood of dressers and doors

breathed silently in and out, the salt-grease aroma

of food arose from pots and pans long ago

scorched and settled into their particular seasoning.

Even water boiling was somehow not the same,

the grimy tea kettle hopelessly shrieking out of key.

Soap, perfumes and perspiration clung to every fold

of fabric, laundered or not, the musty basements

and dry dusty attics, the damp funk of dogs

had claimed their territory years before we arrived.

Most days I felt that I had stumbled onto a stage set

without the benefit of lines, or even motivation.

Most days came and went with neither incident

nor reason, the cloudy stove clock ticking.

The air outside felt closer to the truth, even in a place

I did not know. I followed my own tracks from

the day before, addressed the birch trees as family.

When I slept, I curled beneath the covers, knees

to elbows, even in summertime, worried that if I lost

the signature of my scent, I might lose myself for good.