68
Life
is fixed in soulfire;
Only the physical fades away.
Today
and the end-of-winter wind
bring tears to my weakening eyes.
The squinting of winter buds.
Do we renew?
I
think of my father westering,
of his ancient watery eyes,
tremulous, brimming with sentiment.
As
if to receive the eyecup,
I tilt my head and walk amid the film.
Then return to my room.
The gardenia plant has passed its bloom.
All is green.
The wink of spring.
Awash
in wonder I water it,
awaiting the white again.
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New York City
March 1986