There will never be another poem
like this one. The poet changes
with the putting of the words to paper.
The moment passes
like a snowflake caught,
even before this ink is dry.
This is my version of the dolce vita.
This notebook is my canvas.
The backyard is my garret,
sunless and still today.
Boughs shimmer with jagged jewels
winnowed there last night
by January’s icy storm.
Life is still a mystery to me.
A great enigma – once I thought I knew
the answer, but that moment passed; not brilliantly
like lightning in a summer rain, nor sorrowfully
like a widow dripping tears on a sealed sarcophagus,
but quietly, like a gentle sunset
when day is done;
a day unlike any other, any time.