Winter Sea

You wake up to the deepening light through the window,
a little closer to . . . {the bird trapped in the room,
perched on the leafless branch,}

Lemon-colored hills, splashed with oaks and scrub pines,
crows making their loud appearance, rowing
diligently across the bay,

and the world goes on with its wars and suffering as usual,

which is no excuse to stay removed, not to raise hell at the
oppressors.

Within one’s own small frame is the larger circle of time,
the way the beach towels blow the wind back,
a book is placed squarely on the desk,
the bread tastes as it did a century ago
baked with rosemary and thyme.

And zero still adds up to zero.

Confusion begins with a long and bitter love affair with
attachments.

The crows keep shouting ta-ta-ta as if the secret were indeed to
let go
because sooner or later—
you have to.

We all know it, but suspend it, like a cheap trick.

Meanwhile, sit down and have a glass of wine.
You’d be surprised at the possibilities:

the raspberry sun, bright fog—so many endless evenings.

Copyright © 2008 Jacqueline Marcus All rights reserved
from The American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission