Never Find Me Again

"The rain I watch fall in the courtyard comes down at quite varying tempos." – Francis Ponge, from "Rain"










The bittersweet berries are so vivid laying along their emerging vines in the leaved canopy as to remind one of something entirely else; there is no need to think that these are berries of organic origin; as though, corpuscle by corpuscle, they emerged through a season and exploded to such orange pearl-like beauty; you sense that this must be of a miracle; it is truly the only word that works your mind at that moment; look around at the rest of the knoll; see that the juniper is a raw and savage trunk, leafless but defiant, like the old woman who you see so tough at the bus stop and you stop to wonder how she has done it all these years – to rise, dress, no help of others, no handout, hair a mess under a scarped bonnet; but not these berries; cosmic; I would take oracular advice from the voice that it heeds; a globe onto itself, a little sun without heat; and I enter into it, as we all must one day, curl up, lay my head down, take a taste, and know they will never find me again.