Harold, Going On

I sit where you would sit
By the open window on the porch

Dale, that damned squirrel, gathers acorns
Where you planted gourds
Pays me no mind, still
Which makes me smile

His world has gone on spinning
Somehow the worlds have gone on spinning
As I slip from symphony into silence

I pass through the kitchen, with its Maytag in D Minor
A note stumbling to find footing
Between the Black & Deckers, in A and E

I stand now on the porch
Just as the B Flat of the dishwasher, with no ceremony
No baton drop, stops
And makes everything feel of quiet

When something stops, it’s as if everything else,
Even if it goes on, is gone

I sit alone now and hear only the autumn night
Smell lilac
The same night you listened to
With its F sharp of bullfrogs
And its crescendo of crickets

We call this quiet, but it’s not
It’s sound
But then the wind rises up, over the pond
And that feels like the first noise of the night

It sweeps up, unaware of me or the memory of you
As unaware as the moon or the stars or the trees
And it kisses the ground where you once walked
That favorite purple dress swept up by the wind
Of a springtime storm

You puckered your lips and blew a kiss,
Pretending you were Marilyn
Then you laughed as I smiled
And you turned to the woods
Staring into the storm
With its percussive rumbling
Its timpanis sounding some low note that shook your soul
Before the storm became one sound
And swallowed the evening whole