He wanted to say what he felt
while he still felt it
as he sat before the contours
of his longing. It was alive
with shadows and windy light:
long grass bowing over and over,
polite, even reverent,
and smooth, the way young lungs
fill and empty without oversight,
and sometimes a fall warbler
caught up in the instant
sailed by. How will I die — how
can I? he asked, his brush still wet.
Will it come at a moment
of indecision? What color is it?
Must I agree?
If so, he’d live forever
because he’d never agree, never!
The present, sun-charged,
rushed into his hand.