She is hoeing down into the garden
and I stop to watch her.
I am raking leaves with a small child’s rake
that only comes up to my knees
because I broke the other one
last Spring.
I think we’re an old couple,
I say.
We’re 38, we’re not old,
she laughs.
Struggling to get up off her knees
as I turn the wrong way
and throw out my
back.
Youngest of three
The center of her universe
While others fall like dead leaves
She never thinks about her own mortality
Supple skin smooth as velvet
She looks upward at a limitless sky
Years pass flesh loosens from bone
Muscles start to atrophy
No longer young
She looks down at the cold ground
As one by one by one
Are taken
If I don’t reach you
on my last day
before the grave,
you can protest here.
Nothing’s imminent.
Don’t blot mascara
with the blank
page.
I’m not the grandparent
offering water
at the border.
No aluminum blanket.
Your calls will be answered,
by Chet Baker,
in the order they are
perceived.
After the birthday
the death day
gets a turn
at the wheel.
Maybe future morbidity
is just a weather
report from
the ICE age.
I wish, and wish again
the meek inherited
some sort of love
the proud overlooked.
More at http://www.schmitbooks.com/.
Memory is my enemy
Reminding me that I do not recall
Photos are an affliction
Full of ablated and forgotten connections
Old letters are a liability
Evoking nostalgia, bringing pain
Your presence is a respite
Animating my very soul
Why do you fear Death,
Or Time or Ageing?
Your soul wants to be free.
Seeks to shatter the fetters
Of this fragile human body.
Before long, soil you shall be
Feeding this famished earth.
Or slumbering in an unlikely creek
Bestowing hope and solace
To parched and weary wanderers.
You were surely intended
To unlearn all of yourself
Become one with the whole.
Hearken! For the day quickly dawns
To return you to the universe.
I’m more than the sum of my parts
And I have so many many parts
Stationary, moving or out of order
Some parts wore out over time
Some ground to a complete halt
Some replacements are available
Some require the operating room
Some are in the cosmetics aisle
A few respond to undergarments
My wit, humor, vulnerability abide
Way past the usual warranty date
Outlasting the telomeres’ usual fate
Not a function of metabolic tests
Invisible on x-rays and on scans
Whether in working order or not
I’m so grateful for what I’ve got