The gift of all this crumbles
with a single out-of-sync happening.
Geraniums are frosting over
and the high grass is yellowing.
Yesterday was a cat in symmetrical slumber,
pictures stood straight and warmth
was gathering like a sweet wind over the neighbourhood.
Does this mean it is my mind? like an insect living
one season, sees only that season, dies before winter,
content to have made it so long?
Does this mean the puddle
I jump in, wade in, determine in
is only a pail of water, nothing beside the ocean?
When the puddle is stirred from its stillness or
becomes a bath for snakes or dries up from too much sun –
it is still the puddle and will replenish again
as all puddles do in the rain, maybe
in the early evening just before the lion comes
to take a long, relaxed drink.
Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Literary Orphans”, Issue 13, May 2014