Sunflower Season, Romona Youngquist, 48 X 60, oil
Terminus
Let him who is going a‑visiting be fetched away.
—Aua, an Eskimo shaman
1.
A simple table, impervious to weather, round and low, four black iron legs, a slab of marble. And there is nothing on it, there never is, it sits out in the loneliest part of the garden and serves no purpose. I can’t imagine why it’s been placed there at all—other than to resist all adjectives. Then, this morning, there are petals on the table, three white petals which have drifted from nearby branches. I may brush them off as I walk by, or the wind may do it—. But by tomorrow they will be gone.
2.
Mind may roam,
not race.
Hand may touch,
not tear.
Eye may gaze,
not grasp
what is and
isn’t there.
Tongue may taste,
not speak—
not even in prayer.
3.
Only the sparrows are up at this hour,
rustling in the dark filth of the eaves—
and a pair of crows circling
the tallest of three fir trees
in the distance where trains whistle.
Stay no longer.
Go no faster.
Stay no longer.
Go no faster.
Stay no longer.
Go no faster.
That’s smoke in your pocket
not a cloud,
my dry-eyed stationmaster.
________________
R. Nemo Hill