Sunday, November 13, 2011

like days

         

          the flowers,


yellow,
somehow
haven’t died,
though they haven’t
seen dirt
in weeks.

in the morning,
you trimmed
their stems
again and
arranged them,
again,
so they could
stay with us.

          gracing
the
dining table.
they don’t even
know
they’re beautiful,
these flowers;

          their petals
falling to the
tablecloth
like days.
           
          nothing
so evanescent
as their
yellow starbursts,

but heartbeats.

           then 
wind and rain -

and sun.

it doesn’t matter
in the end,

does it?

that the flowers
don’t understand

          how

amazed
we are 

by them.


...

Friday, November 11, 2011

unexposed

a camera
in a box for my son
on the dining room table.
a retro birthday gift
with
film of the
old fashioned kind;
the kind you
can’t edit,
and don’t know what
moment you’ve captured
until far later.
months later.
years. lifetimes,
actually.

sometimes, you’d never know
how your story ended.
you’d find
undeveloped
rolls of film
and wonder
what was hidden there -
what,
what joy,
what banality -
sadness -
no photos of the funeral
of course.
maybe in the bar,
after. always with
the flash in the mirror.

or finding
unexposed film
that should have caught
a moment
but didn’t,
and now,

well.

or the shoeboxes
full of faded
photos
you don’t
remember
being taken.

but there you are.

or the negatives
you’d find in envelopes
years
later and realize
the
beauty

hiding in plain sight.

the beauty
you forgot you
took a picture of

like the love you
forgot you had

in that place
you

never went
again.