THE THREAD | This dumb gusting

THIS DUMB GUSTING
 
The wind keeps knocking over my days.
See how I keep trying
to line them up so neatly?
 
Just look at last Monday,
the conversation worth recalling.
And Wednesday during breakfast
when my child asked for ravimoli.
Thursday of all days
when the phone rang with hard news.
Saturday, an unexpected nap
in the afternoon sun.
Sunday, the argument
that is not yet resolved.
 
But what is Monday now
that it has blown into the neighbor’s yard?
What are these memories of moments
all tossed about?
I look like an idiot,
chasing papers fast-fluttering down the street.
How is life even held together
if all of the pieces are scattered?
 
When things return to normal
is another way of saying
when the wind dies down—
then I can collect everything
and arrange it again
just so.
 
Forgive me if I can’t keep track
of which day the kite rose high
and half-lifted me,
which day the breeze at my back
made my last mile so swift,
or which day the sight
of her hair lifted in the wind
with the hint of a smile beneath it
is what saved me,
whatever day that was.

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IMAGE: Paul Klee's Bearded Man

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What I'm reading: George Saunders' Lincoln in The Bardo
What I'm listening to: Toad the Wet Sprocket's Fear, Daddy Yankee's "Que Tire Pa Lante", The Tallis Scholars Sing Palestrina

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Grace above beneath behind ahead within,

Andrew