Friday, November 13, 2015
You know what shots sound like. The acorns
Hitting the roof don't sound like shots at all.
So why do they make you jump? This time of year
Tells a story: Find a safe place. You, me, a dozen others
Have a story, too: There isn't one. All these damn
Dead oak leaves, scratching and scattering and piling,
Old newspaper nobody reads, delivered from the skies.
They just keep putting it out.
My experience confirms that the book you never write
Is far more welcome than the one you bring to light.
They like the thought of stories left untold, the buried gold,
No need for uncomfortable stammers about meaning to pick it up,
Of being so busy, not knowing what to say. Could it be enough
To say the instrument, despite its polish, was brass,
And worn, and suffered a few dents, but it was well played?
Another story fall tells is that it will be over. You turn
A certain corner and it's a new year, and like before,
I'm walking in the door of your place, and I can't
Even take off my coat, there's such a crowd. No one
Ever quite gets the lore about New Year's Day food right--
Is it that the greens are dollar bills, the peas are coins,
The cornbread is gold? It doesn't make a lick
Of difference. Hand it out to all. All
Day, they arrive; greetings to new guests,
The scramble for another plate, another spoon.
A day of beginning, over and over again.
Photo: Mine. Typically perverse for DC, the Valley Trail is hard and the Ridge Trail is easy.