Fall is coming judging by golden aspen leaves
stuck in corn stubble
then winter with its brutal winds
and groves of silent white-iced trees
blue light dancing everywhere
until blackness consumes everything
and spring begins
and on and on
and somewhere there I die.
I am not as important as I used to be
with my book of phone numbers possibilities
scaling San Francisco streets
feasting on noodles in China town
chasing the long legs of Frankie Lee
or my guitar case open in Harvard Square
singing loudly into traffic fumes
with annoying chants of Hari Krishna
trailing down the Charles
or hoisting my 88 keys
up five flights into the brooding heights of Worcester
dead tired hoarse stinking of second hand smoke
another gig another year one lover to the next
songs grooved deep into my brain
even now they spin and spin they never quit
run on and on
but always the Big Dipper
hoists herself up high at night
pours out sanctity and sanity
until I find me here
where I can write the lines of what I see
at my mother’s maple table
really I grow smaller
less significant each day
I place the cat upon my belly
his generous palpitations
urging me to heal
eroding what I thought was mine
we purr as one
and when I’m gone
summer fall winter spring
may cease to be
for all I know
as someone somewhere
takes a bite of one perfect ripe rose plum
©2014 Mariénne Kreitlow