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Note Taking
Jean Hollander

Why does it take
the honing of a star,
the call of a bird
red-beaked and strident at sunset

to announce the sickled moon
is rising, again, oh repeated
advent of the humdrum
magnificent universe, sorrow

of time, and all brevities, elongated
quest into other, more lasting
states of true being, not sold to, enslaved to
the second-hand beating of my jeweled watch.

In red ink I write this:

Let us love
let us love one another
for the brevity we own
and let death take note.

 

 

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