Lilacs look neon in fading light.
Death makes life shine:
a tiredness, a flickering between
ages, which is each age;
a piling up to tottering
and falling back to sand.
So much for cycle. The front door lock
sticks each fall when we’ re first back.
We are advised to oil it.
Olive oil in the keyhole:
again the old key turns.
Once again to meander
along the edge of water,
whether tideless sea or tidal river,
pushing the stroller, dreaming
oil in the lock; the key
dipped in lubricity
the boychild’ s shining skin
me tired to the bone
Already summer’ s over.
Goodbye, lilacs. Your
neon is past; you’ ll bloom again
next spring. Past an age
each season feels like an end of summer
but still the tale’ s to tell
over and over for those
lolling and snoozing in the stroller,
preparing to come after.
Tall house standing on its high green hill —
children, do you remember?
Lawns slant down to a stream.
Under a striped tent
a buffet’ s spread in the sun.
Ideas of the eternal,
once molten, harden; cool.
Oil, oil in the lock.
The old key turns.