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07/20/08 - (2)
Mustiness Seated on the front-porch steps at Rowan Oak, This humid, cricket-sibilant noon, I, sole owner and proprietor, For transitory moments, of this shaded solitude, Inhale the scent of sentinel cedars Failing to mask the mustiness that the house emits — Decay's transliteration of desolation.
Here, I'm at peace with my demons and his, Though I'm a mere visitor to his lingering presence. Once, in deep, availing humbleness, I'd travel, three, four, six times a year, To check on his estate and mine, Define my mind's location, by his, Rely on his stars, to triangulate my fate.
Not a solitary adventitious sound or shadow Disturbs my meditation. There's nothing discernably distracting, Nothing save for the disquieting realization That I've already outlived William's years, by three, And that the death-breath I've been smelling Could, as easily, be my own.
07/20/08 - (2)
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