What Keeps Me Up
The feckless habits of the world
outside the window. The wind
going, returning, going.
The cherry trees in bloom are a
disguise, a fake mustache on
these streets of houses
and more houses.
Memory holds the darkness
of water beneath trees,
the rooted strength
of granite cliffs.
The conclusions stand tall
and then evanesce.
The assumptions watch, embarrassed.
Maybe the evening itself is animated,
making those distant noises: a dog
barking, children calling out
in some game.
A treat when the long familiar
surprises us, says something new
or hands us the past (all of it)
in a single object, a single gesture.
Spring has come home with arms full
of packages. Do the geese regret
having flown so far south?
we are each our own weather system:
you a dark vortex, I a jagged line.
or each a circle, one H, one L.
We travel across a map with no features.
We are rain, snow, sunshine falling
on noone we know.
We are likelihoods, not certainties.
Don Tiedemann's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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