| Lessons by Peter Kent | ||
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When she left, November turned warm as a hand tucked in a pocket, an easy solution recognized once done. Pulling the leaves from the lawn it almost seemed the grass would need mowing again. As though the firewood had split, stacked, and dried itself during the night; even though now there was no need for it. Pinhead drops of dark blood enameled to the kitchen floor, the final traces. In the self-portrait she left turned upside down above the attic stairs she is smiling, a last try to be happy for me. It even seems the sun has managed to veer back onto a higher- angled track. Such clarity of outlook and vision, like a sky scrubbed free of humidity and haze by the harsh passage of a storm front. To finally accept that the season cannot be restored, even if I could find and tie every yellowed leaf back to the branch it fell from. All these lessons you wanted to unlearn are mine now to endure in turn. _________________________________________________________________________ PETER KENT
lives and works in Boston. He is currently participating in Harold Bond's Seminar in
Poetry.
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