PONDERING ANN: II

FIFTH SEASON

Just give me one more season

so I can figure out the other four.

-John Prine

Summer ends, the last lights of

the late dusk dripping across 

heat wilted river lilies, while 

the hummingbird dances a few

swoops for the remaining sweet, 

for the last hurrah, the last zing 

on by. 

We turn to fall in shades of 

amber, goldenrod funneling 

pollen through the breeze, each

sneeze assured. The palms grow

cold, the mittens tucked away 

are finally called 

upon.

The dark is also the cold, and the 

months stretch long into a white

desert once the evergreen has

been strewn to the curbside for 

pickup, holidays passed. There

were few ghosts to show for it,

though we long for the sing-

song spirits which once dotted

the Douglas fir, the now-stripped

oak. 

After frost we tap the maples, 

draining sap into condenser bags 

careful so as not to spill, so as not 

to rain liquid gold upon the turning 

mosses, driving themselves 

slowly out of the ashen claws of 

Winter. 

Though syrup is sweet, sap 

alone crawls across the tongue 

like cement dries in the tepid sun,

leaving teeth to grit themselves

against the adhesive liquid devoid 

of any saccharine 

sweet. 

Spring, 

of minds between, is much the 

same. Sand lines the snowbank,

etched by tire grease and boot

tracks. The boys have gone to

work peeling the pavement, 

tearing away the black tar 

bubbles thrown upwards by 

ice stowed beneath thawing 

road. North State is upturned, 

throngs of students abound, 

circumnavigating the newly 

dug pit. Hardhats align the 

corners, we are rebuilding. 

We are repaving. We will

repave again, and again. 

Then maybe one more 

time. No—