.png)
from the warmth of my window, looking
across the parking lot
over the roof of the Boyce Farmer’s market
the tree with the one large nest
visible in the naked branches
whips back and forth
and wisps of snow blow in circles
there is beauty in this moment of starkness, in
this Sunday stillness, the parking lot
empty, nestled in those hours between
the weekday cars of government workers, and
the Saturday market
with the outdoor venders selling vegetables from their farms,
people everywhere, lineups,
gone in late autumn
to be replaced in December by men selling
in seemingly haphazard places
Christmas trees and wreathes
the acrid smell of food trucks, fat flesh, the
smoke mixing with the cold air, hanging
as a common thread across the Saturdays of fecundity
and bareness
then, hush, the stink too is gone
until it returns, like the tick tock, tick tock
of a metronome
***
there is a serenity also in these too short days
turning dark, and the moon, mustard yellow, draped
in a haze
the same moon watched by
our barefooted cave-dwelling cousins
traces of whom
reside within our genome.
predators and prey
who, with killer-ape eyes, looked at trees bare of leaves
and saw beauty in that same starkness
I see across the way
shared with us these hominid dreams
of a time free of fear, free
of sudden death, free
of random acts of cruelty, free to just
sit and watch
the majesty of nature
that watched the seasons run their course
smelled the acrid smell of fat meat cooking
and had no concept
of Zyklon B or skeletal thin bodies
floating in lime
***
There was a time in which,
the bitter end of my marriage settling upon me,
I would drop my estranged wife
off at work, take a route to the University where I professed
and on days such as this
there was a copse of trees I would pass
that would glitter in the sun
with fresh fallen snow
I would pull over the car
just watch those bare limbed trees
for 5 minutes or so
transfixed by the loveliness
laid out in front of me
it was oh-so beautiful but,
hush, tick tock,
the same route, the next day
the sun clouded, the glitter gone
it was just a row of trees
and I’d drive on
***
I cherish those rare moment
found between tick tock periods of
burnt, hanging flesh
cherish the moments that demand we embrace them
that put lie to those eons of hate and cruelty
we have travelled from and with
our barefooted apelike cousins,
moments that declare:
we, sad little arrogant beasts,
renounce our mark as brutes
proclaim we
are neither yet stripped of promise, nor
yet exempted from grace
Albert Katz
After 43 years as a Professor of Psychology, Albert N. Katz (he/him) retired and started a literary career. His poems and stories have since appeared in anthologies, genre-based and literary magazines. On retirement, he moved to one of the maritimes provinces of Canada. Katz' recent poems are reflections initiated in that new environment and reflections on his retiring and upcoming relocation. He can be reached at: psychkatz@yahoo.com https://www.facebook.com/albert.katz/ twitter: akatzn