Spring Cleaning No. 1

It is an April evening.
The sun is fading fast behind a forest of transparent trees.
I am a shadow, growing,
caressing the broken branches of a wind-shattered willow lying scattered upon the ground.

When they ask me why I did not attend the writers’ retreat,
I will tell them that I had something better to do.
I had to clean up my lawn.
I had to pick up the debris
of my life eaten from within
tumbled now by breath,
remnant of a tree
in the forest
of my soul.

April 17, 1999


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