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The Cricket at the Center of the World
Crossing Buford's field, late September,
ryegrass, pigweed, lamb's quarters, sumac.
Somber palette at the end of an age.
Stopping to tie a shoelace—listen.
A steady whirr, fragile secret center of things
from which creation itself seems to arise.
Listening, looking east.
There's the yellow path that leads to the sea.
There's the barn and the water tower and the town.
From limb to limb a bluebird goes
too fast to follow—until it's swallowed by softwoods.
It's erratic path is a necessary
half-sprung spring in the grand mechanism.
We say leaves fall and they do.
We say time heals and mean our slow forgetting.
Pigweed, sumac. Stand and listen.
Not speaking, not moving. Yet wanting,
like a child, to stop the world with a footstep.
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