It Comes To This

Inevitably it comes to this — perhaps unexpected,
though not really. It seems clocked into the mechanism,
an insistent sort of ticking, timing itself out, inexorably, now
impervious to desire, to will, and then the slow boil of memory
bubbles up in discreet fragments, many thought forgotten,
not in any particular sequence or chronological order,
not as a lengthy litany of wins, losses, and draws,
nor even as a judgment or confirmation:

just the remembered sound of rain in the night,
a warm wind, the windows wide open, breathing,
moving in the dark with her, mindless ecstasy;

looking up suddenly in the grammar school play yard,
a formation of bombers leaving long white smoke trails
across a perfectly clear blue sky, roar of jet engines;

the taste of a victory Coca Cola after the ball game,
team mates all shouting and clapping, the broad smile
on the face of your father in the stands, applauding;

a swift pull on the fishing line, then the startling leap
of a Rainbow Trout, the pounding heart, the desperate
contest, the taste of fresh fish from the campfire;

scrolling through endless spreadsheets in the office,
then downloading the face of a saint on the new computer,
the breathlessness as the file slowly opened, mind stopped;

standing at her door at dawn, the cry of two peacocks,
the rain as we drove away, the music playing on the radio,
us laughing like never before, the old ache pacified at last;

the endless blizzard, finally crawling out the second story
window, the city shut down, people skiing through the streets,
trying to get to work, turning back, the sound of snowplows;

leaving the known behind, no longer caring, then kneeling
before the old Asian master, the game today transparent,
now the fist shoots straight up, a sudden shout — free;

a small sleeping dog curled in your lap before the fire,
the daylight fading in the window at dusk, a glass
of wine to wash away the random brief regrets;

and each memory fragment is quickly followed by another,
until they all conflate together in a cascade of emotions,
then a gradual dissipation, pooling at last in a silence
where nothing is remembered, nothing is revealed.

About Bob OHearn

My name is Bob O'Hearn, and I live with my Beloved Mate, Mazie, in the foothills of the Northern California Sierra Nevada Mountains. I have a number of blog sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: Essays on the Conscious Process: Compiled Poetry and Prosetry: Verses and ramblings on life as it is: Verses and Variations on the Investigation of Mind Nature: Verses on the Play of Consciousness: Poetic Fiction, Fable, Fantabulation: Poems of the Mountain Hermit: Love Poems from The Book of Yes: Autobiographical Fragments, Memories, Stories, and Tall Tales: Ancient and modern spiritual texts, creatively refreshed: Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern: Wisdom of a Spirit Guide: Thank You!
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