Poetry and Poetics
NOW THAT I AM OLDER
Another day, another
bother, I need to pull
the rosebush next to this old house easement.
Too many days have passed in shade and brown
petals poised like questions on the portico.
I've avoided the prick and hook of thumb so long
I barely notice a new year or sky claim the space
above my court. Here's a set of London-dark days
like mops arranged by handle size. Here's a hot rag
stinging with vermouth to ward off the untoward.
I'm nothing special that a thought as simple
as the river couldn't wipe away, even sticks
in an evenfloe inherit the shape of the bathysphere.
This is something humans have to practice.
Watch nine monks set up a mandala only to blow it
away, this will worm the fleeting nature of restraint
into your ear. See a mash of perennials in the soil around
our dearth, lauded when the sun turns them neckward
in the pot. Push your hands far down the dirt, feel it grip
your insubstantial grasp, make you mindful this too shall last.
© by Angela Vogel
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