How does a season slow, slew, so inhere
within the theater of common sounds
that run yearlong? but synesthesia
subtle, pre-amp interpreter of all
runs yearlong sounds through autumn ears and minds.
The bubble chamber names the particle
that passes - tracks in semi-somnolence.
Leaves, bright sparks scintillant in vacuum...
honeycomb of galaxies gossamers:
and, "We can't go back!" the currawong calls,
recalling us to ourselves.
Mere wavelet
of this COVID-19 tide. No cases here*,
but hard-hit countries tack into the storm,
re-start economies to feed twin beasts
twin parasites of greed and of disease
that ride the backs of sociability,
when all we want is to have sufficient
good food and drink in some variety,
fun, tenderness, arts, sensual pleasure,
to raise our children and to hand on down
a livable world.
Far too much to ask.
Two (right hand) neighbors playing cross the path:
long-haired, blond-bearded lad strung cyclist-thin
has giggling toddler follow on his string;
one bare foot then another up a tree,
he disappears to her delight. What? See
him drop on all-fours, grin-her, dancing free.
Now leaves yellow launch singly from this tree,
as breeze is easeful; and the clouds allow
a filtered evening sunlight on the lawn,
where all the scattered multitudes lie still.
................
Written in decasyllabic lines.
*No cases in Sale Vic, I mean, to my knowledge.
As to the blond hair, mine was when a lad, too.
