My father is old and weeps when the morning is new because he knows too much, is soaked with wisdom. I tell you this and you nod and your eyes film with tears.
And something else. Look, I say. The shadows of the leaves are still, like held breath, but the thick tree trunk bends with the breeze. You see it too.
You can, even now, infiltrate these strange hours, interweave yourself with me. How do you travel back when I send you so far?
I didn’t mean to make you wise so soon, like the oldest of men in the new of the morning.
But when things are quick between us like this, slow noon is far away.
Category Archives: Prose poems
I don’t know, I say.
We waited so long in the café. The waitress had her apron on inside-out. You took pristine paper napkins and folded them into your pocket. The croissant wasn’t warm, your toast came without jam. We had the conversation with our eyes and fell a little in love with her, our inside-out waitress. A tip for all the tenderness she aroused and the white napkins fluttering to the floor as you stand to dig out your change.
I smooth and fold them like pages, like sheets, like all the days and tuck them back into your pocket.
I don’t know how not to do this, I say.
Do you see me? I don’t say.
‘Accretion’ has a number of meanings. In biology it refers to a growing together of parts that are usually separate. It is used differently and more poetically in this article by Christopher Andreae: ‘ … the accretions of paint that had buried the door’s details like snow over a garden.’