November

November

After three days of steady rain -
over two inches said the radio -
I follow the example of monks
who write by a window,
sunlight on the page.

Five times this morning,
I loaded a wheelbarrow with wood
and steered it down the hill
to the house,
and later I will cut down
the dead garden

with a clippers
and haul the soft pulp
to a grave in the woods,
but now there is only
my sunny page which is like a poem

I am covering with another poem
and the dog asleep on the tiles,
her head in her paws,
her hind legs played out like a frog.

How foolish it is
to long for childhood,
to want to run in circles
in the yard again,
arms outstretched,
pretending to be an airplane.

How senseless to dread
whatever lies before us
when, night and day, the boats,
strong as horses in the wind,
come and go,

bringing in the tiny infants
and carrying away
the bodies of the dead.

~ Billy Collins ~

Posted over on Panhala