I have ventured out to grab
a day of small triumphs:
in rain, the eagle sits perched
on a high branch of my tree.

For several days a possum lay dead
on the roadside, disturbing
in the way random death
attaches itself to anyone at hand,
my possum by the public road.

Now the carcass is gone.
I think my eagle survives
in a more private part of the woods
out of my sight and eluding
my recollection.

I consider
whether leaves that pile on my land
prod me to generosity
toward the changing season,
a consenting party to natural corruption;
whether summer songbirds will return
next year; or if my greed
to witness wings and songs
will abate beneath my maple.

If so, life cycle will not proceed
in accord with my plan, to my chagrin.

 

 

Keith Moul is a retired insurance executive, with an English PhD. He lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife of 44 years, Sylvia. His daughter, Ianthe, is an exciting artist, who took his author photo. Keith has published his poems widely, starting in 1967. His chapbook, The Grammar of Mind, was released in November, 2010 by Blue & Yellow Dog Press. He also publishes his photos frequently. Also in 2010, a poem he wrote in response to a photo he took was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He will not be surprised if his readers envy him his pleasant life.

Photo by Jack Batchelor.