When I was a boy, the bayou Bonne Idee flooded. I…
for James Still
A man who’s old enough has earned the right
to stop the car if, driving past some woods,
the beauty so beguiles him he is drawn
to wander under autumn’s changing leaves.
And even if expected somewhere else
he’ll now be late, we might do well to leave
him to this chance at solitude—so late
in life—forgiving how he turns the car
around and finds a place just off the road
then takes such care no car will come upon
his own and, startled, jerk the wheel. Or worse.
He goes among such quiet selves and bends
to sit among their roots, a wide estate.
He nestles back inside a psalm of time.