A Day, A Season - Poem by Hans Ostrom
At dusk suddenly shrubs
blacken like over-ripe fruit.
Cries of children playing
soccer diminish. In last light,
women walk dogs in the park
before winos shuffle in,
rustling like cockroaches.
These and other gestures
of light, air, traffic, hunger,
routine, and business seem this
evening profound enough to be
called seasonal. The evening
seems large. There was the solitary
dying sunflower in the old woman's
garden today. Its sagging head
looked tragically rotten. Its
sad, dappled leaves hung like the fins
of a beached sea-mammal. Old
people boarding the bus now
in Mainz-Bretzenheim climb
into gray light. The bus
groans away from the curb.
hans ostrom 1980/2013
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