(Christ! this was years ago)
the color of the air.
I could best see her where
she fl oated on the stone
seeming, herself, almost
her own faint-featured ghost
over her charcoal show
of self on things below;
and free of anguish there.
the far side of his own autumn,
with its grants of a certain number
of clear, still days, with a fugitive
richness of colors against the dusks
coming early across chilly ground.
And in that place, on that day, wondering
if there were trout back up in there,
he had caught a small one in the pool
above a crossing, and letting him go
stood for a moment, looking at the pebbles
in their diff erent colors, in the shallows there,
thinking -- not sadly, but as the outcome of a rough
calculation -- This may be the last time
I'll be up here, and do this. And so it was,
on that shady feeder stream, in that steep place.
you don't think
of, at the time,
so much is moment-
by-moment fi tting
never a joint
showing and it
all on the go