Wisdom
Friends may be starting to say
he’s not right in the brain
now that he can’t
use a phone can’t sign his own name
can’t send out any sort of a flare
but the ones who will always
have mattered to him
still know that his mind is the same
sun-washed library where all
the thick and beloved volumes
are safe in the beat-up shoes
of their green and brown leather covers
and there are tall golden windows
where grief-weathered elms and oaks
reach in with their slow bent shadows
he always imagines it is late in the day
and something to thumb through
would help with his old wish to settle
so he slides any book
from a shelf he can easily reach
and with the reverence he hasn’t forgotten
sets it down by his favorite armchair
Plume:
