My Work
The redwood in our backyard is seen by three
Or four people a year. We are twelve
In the building, but none of us goes back there
And away from us, the redwood faces
Bricked-up facades. I sit at the round wood table
In my bay window, laptop open: closer to me
An evergreen, for the whole of its length,
Blocks my view of the redwood, its branches
Scraping the window when the wind
Picks up, then falling back
Out of reach.
It is time to write. It is not time to write
Though one time, I am told, is as good
As any time, right now as good as any now.
Or four people a year. We are twelve
In the building, but none of us goes back there
And away from us, the redwood faces
Bricked-up facades. I sit at the round wood table
In my bay window, laptop open: closer to me
An evergreen, for the whole of its length,
Blocks my view of the redwood, its branches
Scraping the window when the wind
Picks up, then falling back
Out of reach.
It is time to write. It is not time to write
Though one time, I am told, is as good
As any time, right now as good as any now.