Early fall's rented orange has begun its move to brown. Brown holds the hue, but can't keep the space, lets go and, relieved of the weight, branches shake in the wind.
"I'm shaking it, boss!"
We track the leaves, our arcs are the same, dropping to the grass, leaves, bushes. It's not the real estate we picked out, but here we are. Now what?
"I'm shaking it, boss!"
Keep shaking. Don't know what else to do. We're not ready, don't want the barrel delivery at the end, that comes when we go still.
No, not still--we're shaking it, boss. Every day, when still prevails, we shake the bush, we show we're here, accounted for. We're here, boss...
all of a piece, alone
in a wind that does not move the others--
in that way: a way to spend
a Sunday afternoon while the green bush shakes.
* italics from "Cool Hand Luke" and William Carlos Williams's "Paterson"
1 comment:
A parable is told of a farmer who owned an old mule, and the mule that fell into the farmer's well. The farmer heard the mule braying and generally freaking the eff out. After carefully assessing the situation, the farmer sympathized with the mule but decided the mule wasn’t worth saving. Instead, he called his neighbors together and told them bury the old mule in the well. The mule’s freak out escalated. This was a dire moment. But as dirt from the shovels rained down, the mule shook it off and stepped up. It wasn't long before the mule, battered and exhausted, stepped triumphantly over the well of the wall, strode right up to the farmer and shot him twice in the face declaring, “I’m the new sheriff in town!” But let’s concentrate on the real message here. The mule kept his cool and handled his adversity. "I'm shaking it, boss."
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