Camas: Closing Time

First published in Camas Summer 2024.

Closing Time

Minutes here on this earth scream by,

my muscles build, then soften,

my head gets bigger, shrinks smaller.

My child’s legs lengthen like beans, 

and I don’t know how to tell her 

that the ripening comes so fast,

that Spring is the most ebullient

moment, boiling rose 

cheeks and gushing melt of 

confusion nipped with quick fog. 

The opening is over 

before we know it. I guess I could 

comfort her with the truth that

Autumn still rages, its convalescence

a fire, crisp words crackling succinct. 

The juice comes flowing 

with hardly a squeeze. All you have 

to do is pick it. The harvest meal 

is short compared to the work 

of putting it on the table, but we still eat it 

gladly, we say we’re thankful.

We all know the crystalline Winter 

is gorgeous in its ascetic way, yet it is 

one of many deaths. I will remind her 

of the round fullness coming after,

that difference is a measure 

of joy. She will remember that the circle 

is the only thing, how lovely it rolls.