December (a)

December (a)

On Bear Creek

One thousand days.
These are all that this life
has left for you.
You stand on the broad
shoulder of a bridge,
rest the hands that you love
on its rough wooden rail
and it is autumn.
Sycamore leaves
large as dinner plates,
large as desire
rain gold and green
in even the slightest breeze.
Below, Bear Creek is
supple, electric, strong,
singing, singing.
The ouzel bobs
and glides,
at home, at home.
You breathe, an act
of power, of timeless beauty.
With one thousand days
remaining
can even this season
show you, at last,
who and what you are?
Or is the stream of
your mind, your heart,
your life,
ever and finally
a mystery?
On Bear Creek
a turtle slips silent
from its stone and
enters the dark waters.
It is at home.
Another day
has gone.

- - Amos Clifford