In my slow-burning archive orange hawkweed
thrives in granite-charactered soil
spalled off the basement stone,
a beaver labours up her steep skid road
logging poplar for food and shelter,
wind drives rivers of ripples down a pond.
Everything here knows what to do but me.
Like a bogus boiler inspector
I investigate every valve, work and rework
notes to husks, skeletal remains,
survivors who revive experience.
I memorize, make pictures
to walk into, for the final time
when I can’t walk or hear or see, and see
lake-cradling pink granite, its orange earth,
its skin of lives flickering, flickering.
August 22, 2004