[Newspoetry] OakHill on Tuesday Morning

[Donald L Emerick]

I look down from the Hill this morning,
though hill stands too tall in my mind,
compared to the towering oaks about it,
growing up and down it, ruling over it,
all weaving and waving in the wind,
fluttering to free water-sogged leaves
who are throwing showers of their own
now that the sloshing storms have passed by,
stomping on the clouds to squirt puddles
that lie in shallow watery graves out there,
as grey mists rise from grass and bushes,
to hover in the air, trying to thicken gloom.

At noon a night-sensor awakes a light
that slumbers on top of the pole
at the mouth of the asphalt drive
that curls up the hill, glistening darkly,
runs by and under my feet
and down again to the street.

I can see a chatty squirrel or two
surreptitiously scampering about,
from one tree trunk to another,
playing or gathering and hunting.
I can hear this flitting squirrel, too,
chittering at himself or some other,
looking for some nut it has buried
that is busy leaping into its own treedom,
which it will achieve someday if it lives.

Winds and rain have knocked off
the tulips, strewn their petals about,
the glows of sparks, fading out and away.
Other bushes clutch small wedding bouquets,
bright clusters of brilliant white blossoms,
polka-dots imprinted on green floral shirts.

I have forgotten all things political,
all that was moral, good or true,
all that was knowledge and beauty,
art, science and song,
paused as I am in this moment,
not quite in awe, but too numb, nonetheless,
and just feel my own feebleness, futile and dumb. 

Thanks for listening
Donald L Emerick
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