Look

Look, the mist is hanging over the valley
of rooftops and roads, clinging to the hillside
cemetery, bringing with it the first shudder
of autumn. Look, the sun, as if weakened
by years of trying to do the right thing, can
barely raise the strength it needs to break through.

Look, the dew drops upon the leaves of the sage
I rescued just a few weeks ago and has since
flourished, its leaves now soft as my grandsons’
baby ears. I want to drink from it, water of millennia, 
of aeons past. Look, the nascent figs upon the tree 
I cut back too harshly last winter, it’s come back 

Stronger, more defiant, the opposite of impotence.
Look, the veins around my ankles, tributaries and 
deltas, narrowing and drying, skin like ancient
parchment, an indecipherable tale to tell, but 
universal all the same. Look, it’s nearly over, the mist
has all but gone. Someone else’s day has begun.