Machine, the oddest things still appeal–
like the tick of my old truck’s engine
when I shut it off and pause at the wheel
to think what I’ll say inside– or do.
Then the chirp on snow of my boot soles,
lamplight indoors, the woodstove’s glow.
So tick on, machine–at a dignified pace.
I feel no hurry at all
to get where we’ll go. No reason to race.
I need to pause at least now and then
to take in the world that’s blessed me.
I still need to watch the sunset turn
the sky above our ridge to crimson,
though I’ve seen it a thousand times.
Weather allowing, I never miss it.
Sometimes thunderstorms pock our pond,
and I savor their whiff of ozone.
Help me stand on the porch a while and look on.
Particulars, countless, big and small–
they shore up anyone’s story.
Most of mine can prompt a recall
of affection, thanks to men and women
who’ve helped me on my way,
to an all-forgiving wife and children,
to friends, some of whom pace no more.
Let’s you and I meander.
May the right people know what in younger years
I may have been too rushed to let on:
I love you. My heart skips a beat.
How I missed you each day you were gone!
I’m not ashamed to risk the maudlin.
Time now for candor. Onward,
heedless of that old clock in the kitchen
in favor of you, new steadfast gizmo.
The clock will win, to be sure,
but why surrender until we have to?