The Fox
In the past, in memory
there is perfection
of events, places, things and people
that does not bear comparison
to the actual.
The actual is gone as it
passes from now into memory
into that clarity of reflection
with the power of the Jordan River
white, deep, clear pushing
against my chest.
Down a rolling dirt road
into a canopy of trees, vines, shade
enveloping as a shroud
the stream bed wound
a place of dreams below the
flat miles of corn.
The fox crossed the road
in total possession
in vivid color
with direction and purpose
back into the green.
The most extraordinary
live similarly ordinary
lives of sleeping, eating enclosed
in endless details of importance.
Even filmed from conception
to internment a whole of a single life
will not be understood
or even remembered.
As death came up upon us all
his arm raised up
from the flat bed that
age and Alzheimer’s had made.
Up in stiff-armed salute
with the power that had
built, moved, organized and directed.
Now this body waited
for the last breath and
the orange bubble of death.
There is no control in what is
remembered, connected, assembled
from the perfection of memory.
It simply is what it is;
what it has to be.
Avery Lake
June 26, 2004
Greenfield Series
©2004 The Fox — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
there is perfection
of events, places, things and people
that does not bear comparison
to the actual.
The actual is gone as it
passes from now into memory
into that clarity of reflection
with the power of the Jordan River
white, deep, clear pushing
against my chest.
Down a rolling dirt road
into a canopy of trees, vines, shade
enveloping as a shroud
the stream bed wound
a place of dreams below the
flat miles of corn.
The fox crossed the road
in total possession
in vivid color
with direction and purpose
back into the green.
The most extraordinary
live similarly ordinary
lives of sleeping, eating enclosed
in endless details of importance.
Even filmed from conception
to internment a whole of a single life
will not be understood
or even remembered.
As death came up upon us all
his arm raised up
from the flat bed that
age and Alzheimer’s had made.
Up in stiff-armed salute
with the power that had
built, moved, organized and directed.
Now this body waited
for the last breath and
the orange bubble of death.
There is no control in what is
remembered, connected, assembled
from the perfection of memory.
It simply is what it is;
what it has to be.
Avery Lake
June 26, 2004
Greenfield Series
©2004 The Fox — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.