November Trilogy

November Four: Steamed-over Window

November Four.
At random point
among countless droplets
a large drop has formed.
Trailing clarity above,
consuming droplets below,
it grows,
accelerates,
descends.

November Trilogy

Bob Komives

I saw it as a dark stripe,
one among a few
in bright translucence
on steamed-over window.

Now,
I notice it to be a slit,
a narrow window,
inviting attention
into a slice of the world outside.

Looking elsewhere along the glass,
I see nothing,
a diffusion of light,
a confusion of focus,
encouragement to give attention inside.

Now, distraction,
peripheral movement
beyond a transparent stripe.
I look through to a place
that is nowhere else a place.
Something sits there,
something stands there,
something happens,
somebody passes,
something inspires a thought.

With the thought
attention turns to reflection,
back through translucence
to a place
and a moment
alone
in me.

Until,
beside me,
I notice again the glass.
My stripe has faded,
gone from transparent to translucent.
A few over-sized droplets
hint at where my view had been.

Now,
nearby,
unpredicted,
another drop,
another slice of clarity,
new place outside,
new thought inside.
Translucence becomes transparent.
Thought becomes reflective.

In these countless droplets
I find rare reflection of everyday mind.

.

.

November Five: Below The Ankles

November Five.
Alive in a long, warm autumn.
A walk across the college campus.
Feelings of being over-dressed and over-aged.
A day to look around.

Who wears his cap bill-back?
Of which tribe are he and she and they?
Who wears her cap bill-front?
Of which tribe are she and they and he?
Can I trust conclusions from years of observation?
The Bill-fronts have come back
(from near extinction)
to dominate.
Have they prospered by conversion?
in-migration?
propagation?
war?
No matter the explanation,
a more obvious observation:
    the hat on my head is popular
    only among dermatologists.
Conveniently too warm,
I stow hat into pocket
and join the inconspicuous tribe
(yet populous tribe)
of No-bills.
This humble act pulls my eyes down
to where I happen to notice feet,
two, three pairs of feet,
walking and standing
(to my surprise)
on the thonged sandals I know as flip-flops.
Surpised,
pleased,
these artifacts too avoid extinction-
after tenuous years of survival
inside a few shower rooms,
outside on lonely July beaches,
and, of course,
here on a warm November day
on my two feet.
They survived verbal abuse
from cross-foot-sandal tribes,
from friend and family.
During its ascendance
the cross-foot became more rugged,
more varied,
expensive-
kicking humble flip-flops from the landscape.
But today I see three,
four, five young women of fashion
wearing sturdy, expensive flip-flops.
They signal a re-born trend,
and acknowledge me as leader.

I walk off campus,
more alive,
newly aligned,
and rejuvenated below the ankles.

.

.

November Six: Indian Summer

November Six.
Closed up,
gaps filled,
steel in our resolve,
food in our tins,
ready for months of eating from pantry,
we are seduced
to go back out
open up
to the heat outside.
Overdressed again for morning.
Underdressed again by evening.

Warmth and sun after an autumn-dark frost,
we call it Indian Summer,
not knowing why,
but surely a tribute:
     we give worthy names to glorious times.
Indian Summer lingers this year,
three weeks at least.
Each day is too short to be borrowed of summer.
We steal it from winter.
And, oh, what reward for thievery!
The more we steal
the briefer our penalty.
Except,
until,
we begin to admit our winter worry.
Having postponed complaints of snow and cold
we worry about the inevitable onslaught
that must build in anger and severity
each pleasant day it is kept away.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to fear of snowless winter
confused trees,
expectant garden,
open land,
too exposed,
too dry.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to wanting a spring
that we know must follow winter.
Oh, Indian Summer:
      we love you.
      You are warm and illicit.
      We always welcome you.
      We thank you for this beautiful afternoon
      and for this perfect evening
      when you may sneak away
      and stay
      until you hear us petition
      for our seduction
      next year.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: November Trilogy :: 0206t