photograph By Robert S. Donovan

photograph By Robert S. Donovan

This rain has been my re-birthing.

These boxes are what move,


gripping the rough cardboard,


grasped around the smooth wood

of grandma’s rocking chair.

I’ve kept the messages

you left on the on the answering machine.

This is the simplest of forms:

Please leave your name


and a brief message

and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

Here is our impermanence,

what is left of us

after the beep

the pausing of the soul

the breath and

This is how we share our time,

seeking new words to

uplift and brighten the soul.

This is the gift

of our impermanence.

Here in the rain,

it is Autumn and the leaves ride down

the creeks by the curb.

My hand becomes the dam

collecting colors in my hand

brown, red

yellow, red

brown, yellow.

What do we grasp

pulling the leaf

from the stem?

I abbreviate this life with punctuation marks.

I abbreviate my life

with you.

Begin parenthesis.

As I begin to move these boxes,

I wonder how this clear plastic

will hold together

what I have not.

What I have failed to do.

End parenthesis.


2 thoughts on “Moving

  1. In wait, life on pause. Moving forward is an escape or a life of what could have been. Loving the mood this put me in, aware of life that could be or life that is not quite finished. I too wonder.

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