I need to give a shout here to Joan Didion for the way she did it.
When the Afternoon Holds Just Enough
Life and dying,
Should be familiar
In the narrow, empty spaces
Hiding,
In the confusing mass of briars,
And dried or mildewed berries:
Take your pick,
While the shadowed visitors of place
Sneak back home.
.
Somewhere, crosses a stretch ,
When memories,
Stretch further
Than the longness of stories
Our present circumstances
Polished in Elaboration.
.
The corner of life is turned
In some broad sweeping arc
Penciled in years,
And hidden in a dozen tin cans
Buried in the yard
Over a period of irregular years.
.
The day’s path gives a ride
A good long while,
Moving, really moving along.
The time, like the knob of some old radio,
Cranking slowly one way,
At once fading and boisterous.
.
Nobody talks about this stuff,
Like politics and newcomers,
Poking,
Unless we can all turn askew,
Upwards. All of us.
‘Cause we all see it our own crooked ways.
And one more:
Don’t fall for the witching hour,
Telling you, this moment:
Some speck of time,
that could turn the day.
No. Don’t.
Just watch this time,
like it was back then.
Shaken Rain 