Arithmetic

Aug 25 2015

Too soon, to see the first leaf change.

It stood out like a bashful orphan,

dull russet

against the green blur

of the densely verdant slope.

But everything in nature

keeps its own version of time

according to some deep internal logic;

the cacophony of life, like a clockmaker's shop

with gears whirring and hands circling and chimes going off.

  ...But really, late August?!!

On second thought

perhaps this leaf is simply acting like us

as we age,

when days flash past, weeks go faster

seasons last a month.

You can see the irony in this --

the perception of time quickening

the less of it we have.

Which isn't cruelty, but simple arithmetic.

Because a year of life is vast, when you're 5;

and merely a 50th

half a century after.

As well as the consequence of habit,

the been-there/done-that

of advancing age.

In contrast to youth;

when everything is new

and all-consuming,

and you’re hungry to learn, and feel.

So do not become jaded, do not keep track.

Scrutinize each leaf, and be amazed

at its light, its shape, its beauty.

Let the seasons unfold,

the succession of plants

the shortening days.

Until spring, when they lengthen,

and you find yourself young, again.

It's been a cold summer here. Today, it feels like fall. So I suppose it's no surprise to have seen that little spot of russet in the green blur of bush. And anyway, whatever kind of summer, it's not unusual for an injured or ill plant to turn prematurely.

The observation was certainly worth a poem. But I'm not sure if it was this one. Because this is uncharacteristically affirmative for me, with its positive prescription and anodyne ending: a bit too much rah-rah and Hallmark card, and not enough cynical realism. On the other hand, I think its form veers a little closer to the conversational and unstylized voice of the prose poem; which I quite like, find challenging, and want to do more and more of.

This is really another poem about writing poetry. It's about the poet's eye, about microcosm, about taking the time to observe and consider. I hope it won't be read as self-congratulatory: as if I were smugly preening about how astute I am to see, how sensitive to notice. Because in reality one of my great failings is the been-there/done-that perspective: I'm so change-averse and conservative, I don't do enough new things or take enough risks to slow my perception of time. Which is just what filling up your days does: while time races by in the moment, when you're focused and absorbed and in the flow, it slows in retrospect, as you reflect back on a full and fulfilling life. ... I'm just fortunate to have my poems as markers of time spent.

(By the way, my arithmetic is pretty bad, considering the title of the poem! Because strictly speaking, it should be 45 years, not half a century. But saying "45 years" right after "50th" is awkward on the lips; "half a century" comes out so much easier. And also sounds significantly longer!)