Patching the Driveway It is the fall of our lives, the leaves Tenuous in their clutch to mother branch Who

is old and grayish brown in the diminishing light of day, But essential in the diminishing potential of her yet-life. Still, The nourishing sap is given, still poured out, A reservoir of regenerating spirit in the bright sun Of transitional seasons, where we see The terror of cracks in the driveway outside the abode of home. Concrete cracks that were widened with the seasons accumulated water Shed from a passing sky and winding earth Gaps from one tectonic plate to another Spreading the distance we travel, forcing us To jump from one geometrically challenged piece to another As we go from one emotion-challenged moment in life To the next, all before the plane of our lives Snap in pockmarked scars of questionable decisions. The carriages of our lives that we drive From event to event, from bread-winning to bread-buying, From date to proposal to birthing to marching band and on To graduation and partings which, while, To one side are leavings which we see with teared eye, To another side are beginnings and scary first steps Taking place from this cracking platform. I carefully mix the powder and life-giving water Stirring with a trusted but rusting spreading tool, Applied with meditative calm in the blowing wind And warming sun, passing cars not even seen. The goings-on of neighbors as they enter and depart their doors, Whichever direction I sometimes miss, and in any case Do not pay attention to, as I find the baroque revelations Which arise from paying attention to the task at hand. The impenetrable tangle of weeds growing through the cracks Must be attended to by the familys ritual priest ensuring That the passing seconds are momentous, and finding Equilibrium gained and teetering disaster avoided. Without breathing and listening, Breathing and patching, It would have been all for naught. But now, patches applied, the driveway, this platform, Is ready for the next season

And the next cars, Driven by returning angels fresh from hopping steps Toward what we hope for them will be what we barely missed, As we stepped off course just once or twice, but enough that they, And us through them, Might find the city to be Shangri-La and El Dorado. Indeed. It is the end of the afternoon and I stand, Spreading tool dropped into the mixing bucket at my feet, (A bucket decorated with splotched and splattered grey concrete dabs) Stretching my back, opening chakras to the sun, Opening eyes to the winds breath, And though a leaf may be torn today from a branch overhead, It will drift onto a driveway patched and the wind Can now blow it skidding across the crack-less concrete into the coming season.

The Jotter 10-5-2010