It’s cold out, it soaks
through the rain
as it falls in the dark.
The wind picks up.
It brings movement
to the vague shapes
under the bare oaks.
 
Over the balcony,
the garden,
once joyously green,
is invisible.
There is no onlooker,
no leaning woman
gazing lovingly.
 
This night is not
for the living.
This mourning,
supernaturally,
vanishes into another
utterly alien world
where we will all rot.
 
Not right, this end.
Not good tonight
when you juxtapose
the happiness
of a few days before,
the pleading in earnest
with the beloved friend,
 
the mundane conversation
about the new fence,
the gentleness of life
that we took for granted,
that wanted few things
in ignorance of, and despite
all objection.
 
If a mind recoils
from this vertigo,
it’s because
it falls alone
into the unknown.
The same now as chairs,
couches, rocks, soils.
 
 
jam21