I know it comes, not when.
I am running to it, racing, straining,
through the brittle leaves, the boggy mulch,
deeply breathing in and out,
alive to the breathing, to the muscles, to my sweat,
to the rhythm, to the light —
so much light.
I walk the cemetery.
I study the newsreel of the King’s coronation.
He is gone. So are they all,
gone, decayed, disappeared.
I am Lincoln in the moment of the bullet’s entry.
I am books unread. Books not written.
I am the red-brick apartment building in the rising sun,
in all his glory.
I am the deep green grass of a child’s lullaby,
a dumb green field.
I am Earth from space,
I am a wildflower downtown in a concrete curb.
I am a sound, echoing.
I am in the boat with others
Patrick T. Reardon
This poem was originally published on the Silver Birch Press online journal on 1.14.15 and was included in my 2017 book Requiem for David.