The moon crawls over my windshield, a bored insect.
Reflection of a reflection of light
on the grim and circling stone.
The world does not share my sense of time:
In a vehicle parked off the road, going nowhere
I sense no motion at all in this luminous bug
on the curved glass. Doesn’t it know
I don’t have all night to be moved?
The last warm day of the year
The October sun rests on a loblolly pine.
Late afternoon, slight breeze. River
of leaves sliding along the street side.
I am too old, says the sun, for this: I get
up later every day and I’m tired earlier.
The pine squints at the sun’s single ring
of fire: Try having as many rings as I do
says the pine. Try living in full seasons
instead of skating above it all. Try,
just once, standing still.