Summer to Spring

the slow days of summer,
when i can count the seconds in a minute.
pass the hours in a second,
and thoughts take years to form.
the premium days of summer,
unstructured and unrecoverable,
like a late afternoon at Bethesda Fountain.
undocumented time,
unrecorded, prehistoric,
awakening uncompromisingly clear
as i pass through re-creative dreams, 
recurrent feelings that brace me for what is to come,
aware of the process of steering.
summer is ending, everything changing;
i hear ticks between tracks on the last song. 

lost autumn,
when the leaves do not float.
they leap from the trees, 
like rats from a ship sinking.
they creep after me, day in and day out
they come after me, through the cold November rain, 
stay the same, weekend and week out.
rats on my treadmill, aerobic rodent
leaves repeating the lost days of autumn 
that blew summer away, without a word,
until the snow came, covered it all, 
and melted away the rain.

nor'easter eve
looking at the last cold star 
the moon i would not see again.
a winter storm coming,
with clouds and cold wet rain,
windy snow till everything black 
turns the city white and shiny.
i stand and look out a high window, 
winter letting in the night,
heat sucked from a swollen tree,
into an obnoxious 7-11 radio, 
while an american baby sleeps
with my wife inside.


spring has come in time,
planted the seed in the soil.
how does it grow? i still do not know,
but it does, and then pretty soon,
the blooming thing is getting ready,
getting ready to bloom, and none too soon
there will be three of us for tea
through those mean mountains
down the valley to brew
Thai or Indian cosmic fragrance
deep inside, soft and green,
i have been there before, a soft machine. 

from Practicing My Chops
New York City
compilation 1992-1994