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Sipping
By David Michael Jackson
I only have apples for you
winesap apples
hanging red and green
from twisted trees
and lying on the ground
brown and rotten
soft and mushy,
not very good,
but they will do
for a break from the field,
for a break
from the work
and the
hot
hot
sun
My brown eyes
her green eyes
her red dress
my brown eyes
her red shoes
the spring trees
the blue sky
my brown eyes
her green eyes
her green
green
eyes
I am.
I have heen read by ones and twos.
I have been seen by tens
or even hundreds.
You can see me
on the street.
I am.
You can hear my voice
In
the silence,
or
in the
crowd
at
ballgame.
I am everyone
I am no one
I am the man on the street.
Tell everyone I was here.
Right here.
Now.
On this spot of soil
in this something,
this
recognition of something,
tell everyone.
I have eaten the last grape.
I hold the vine in my hands
and I throw it into the yard.
I wonder of the purpose
of the vine
(as you would,
as anyone
would)
to feed me
to reproduce
to seek the light.
When I have eaten my last grapes
I will, perhaps, understand.
Perhaps.
But the vine doesn”t care anymore
It just lies there
in the green green grass
The trees are whispering to me.
They tell me the rain will come,
that spring will bring new leaves,
that birds will nest
in my branches.
They tell me not to concern myself
with the fire
nor the blight.
They tell me to stand strongly
and to lift my arms
to the light.
My tongue touches
the roof of my mouth.
My lips are stuck together
and pop apart.
I can feel the air
rushing
through my chest.
I hold this page in my hand
and
I read
these words.
Now sunrise brings a cup of coffee
to welcome the day
Our lives are measured with these days
which are poured into cups
and mixed with sorrow and joy,
We say things like
“I”ll always remember.”
“I”ll always love you”
and we are blown like
dry leaves in a whirlwind,
rising for a moment,
then settling,
to make room
for other leaves
to be blown
to rise,
to settle.
The trees live and die.
Each blade of grass
leans to the summer light
and breaks in the winter wind.
The birds live and die.
The seasons turn
like a merry go round
and
we ride the pretty horses
and
we hear the pretty music
and
we play in the warm sun
as the merry go round
goes around
and around
and around
There is a chill in the day.
Already the birds gather.
Already the insects are frantic.
Already the leaves turn
to browns and yellows.
Savour the day.
Sip it
like a glass of
fine wine.
Breathe deeply
and glory in the song
of the cricket.
Cup the day in your palm like
spring water
and drink.
My little wife
thinks I”m odd and lazy
as she flutters,
constantly working.
She is a little worker bee,
she flutters gracefully,
picking this up,
straightening that.
She is gathering nectar
and I am in the hive,
sipping.
Copyright © 1998 by David Michael Jackson, All rights reserved
***
