A response to Rob Hardy's lovely, aching "Memo Mori."
Ourobor-Us
A year ago, I had just discovered the springtime Arb.
I ran through burned-over prairie, regreening day to day,
Past the oaks that stand in for castle keeps,
Along paths a century old, next to a river much older.
At home: lovely wife, chatty toddler, new-moving baby.
Coos, songs, shrieks, chatter, tears, laughter.
I had no idea how much all this would matter,
Then as I lived it or now as I remember it.
But some of this past is still here.
The baby ooched along on all fours, now scampers.
The toddler swimming on a blanket, now climbing the sofa
Their mother smiling as they look at each other happily.
Pheasants scoot across the path in front of me, plunging
into the spring furrows, the summer corn, the fall stubble.
They will amble through the winter gleanings.
Yes, everything comes undone, but some things
Stay tied together long enough.