Poem, Circa 2003

Sheep

Night.

Here I sit, motionless, against a tree,
A tree so duly vivid and indefinite,
I dare not move for fear it will disappear.
And yet this leaf (Is that a purple hue
Glistening through its paper-thin beauty?)
Which here does fall seems so much bigger
Than that tree in all its fleeting fantasy,
And all the sprawling plains it claims.
As beads of light soak my supposed skin,
Drowning has never felt so good.
And white clouds, dream clouds,
Shift helplessly like droning sheep,
The flock calmly closing in
Above my familiar pasture.

But night will end.
And the tree will wither at a morning whisper.
That I cannot change.
And so I should smile at the sunrise.
What else is there to do?
Still I hear only sounds of breezy fingers,
And see bowing blades of grass.

Now I walk silent, indifferent,
Down the path I know too well,
So well in fact my feet carry themselves,
And I chatter my teeth in sync
With the sound of crunching foliage
And each footstep that I let go.
My only sign of life--My squinty eyes, nearly closed,
Closed by the western sky.
My blind procession halted only for a moment
By frigid knives hurled from angry wisps above.
And then I carry on.

Night.