"An Economy of Insight"
At fifty, I categorize things and call it wisdom.
I see the shaded paths that always entice me,
mossy trails that lead to sand and secrets.
I have come to recognize the faint familiar
sound of syncopation as merely the murmur
of a faulty valve, not the call of some gilded mirror
reflecting a dreamed embellishment of self.
A closed fist, I’ve found, is not always a threat,
but sometimes a harbor, a place to build a life
inside, a sanctuary for those who manage
to subside on a steadfast tithe of passion.
I have named the sky God and let it sweep me
up into its vastness, felt at times that I must be
a cold, bright star or a memory of light.
So small, this underpinning, this acumen
that teeters in the late November wind.
I cannot fall again into the sureness of silence
and regret. At fifty bones are slow to heal.
© 2006 Dale McLain
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