artists, musicians, old boys
with instruments whittled from boughs
gnarled and warped
redwood, boxwood, maple inscribed they sleep in,
they slumber, they do,
naturally as animals– foxes chipmunks squirrels– burrowing in,
deep down away from their toils
under wings of conifers, not far from brooks, little rivulets
womb like they do
hibernate in this place, home, name it
Paradise their personal Elysium
you see my neighbor says, with that child-lost look on his face
in the library parking lot, morning departing
you see, he says, about the fires,
his eyes asquint
they were artists, musicians, retired,
like me, and though I’ve moved two hours away…
they were artists, musicians, retired, like me
I tried phoning them, you know
and the smoke, it’s so hard to breathe even here
about two hours south
and the not
the not knowing, and
how the golden-red leaves, swirl, spin, counter-dance
legions of them and the not knowing
how to wrap one’s head around how
do you, how they
may not have
gotten out, or maybe tried, hunched over steering
wheels round
the image, fixed countenance imagine with or without
wives, animals, instruments, their
eyes set on the horizon as if a miracle
as if a certainly
A certainty, oh imagine them blinded by fire
the hum of the flames which bee-hives make
carrying their instruments
shielded there, tucked angel like
between elbow and waist, cradled
fiddle mandolin oboe
and just made guitar in its canvas case stretched out across a lap, pieta-like;
oh imagine and driving out, they were or they are
sacred now, all of them, imagine…..sublime.