after J.S. Bach (1865-1750)
My efforts at writing are mainly about gratitude. Of course, being grateful doesn’t protect one from possible loss. There are always threats, and if one plants a vineyard at the edge of a glacier, it is hard to ignore that fact of life.
How slowly should we go, the age going on?
Or is it an epoch, an era or,
—perhaps nothing more or less than a stage?
I didn’t think they’d sheer us quite so close,
what with the storms approaching from the north
approaching swiftly, and the northern range,
volcanic, already burdened with snow.
The bird boxes I set out up the hill
have done their work; the young are nearly fledged.
The vines, at last, seem to be doing well,
well as expected, at a glacier’s edge.
I’m open to the weather. Idea of mine:
these lichens and mosses like you and me.
And when we’re gone, they’ll carry on, endure.
Shrug off the loss, and prosper. Even thrive.