An
early Autumn evening, week of the Equinox—
bees
working overtime, knowing time runs against them.
Sitting,
sipping Irish whiskey, thinking: one day you're at an end,
but
you understand: time is measured in beginnings and endings.
Across
the way a pileated woodpecker laughs—listening to my thoughts?—
another
echoes from the north ridge woods. The bees have gone home,
it's
quiet, except for woodpeckers laughing: laughing because they
recognize
a
fool, laughing because it is beautiful here, laughing
in
recognition of truth: they are here now, and now is the only time,
Wanted
for half a life to be in this place, waited to be here, near the
adopted
parents
I loved, where they died, home. I sit this quiet evening,
on
land they gave me, with my Irish and laughing woodpeckers for
company,
thinking
back to roots in an old New England town: a white house, a barn,
a
Summer house behind, home of my grandparents. Was that a beginning,
or an end?
Then
I couldn't stay and I couldn't say, knowing, now, it was both:
treks
for truth begin and end, over and again, with truth found, lost,
found again,
always
on the edge of being lost—false truths draw like flames. Far away
a
woodpecker has one last laugh, knowing the truth of being here—now—
knowing
only this evening can be truth, knowing time runs against us all.
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