One does not just pick up one’s long feet,
flatten the wings of one’s hat
and go (eyes wide,
beak forward,
driving like an ax).
There are rituals to these things.
Make lists. Learn phrases.
(“These are grave times” in French.)
Muse on the mutability of ships, planes, bicycles
and calm your quaking brains
with pictures of calm old gardens,
temples in ruins two thousand years ago.
It is all very well for birds, wolves, bears
to vanish, unceremonious, into the night
and in time reappear,
unceremonious, smiling,
slyly in league
with spring.
They walk inside time. We trim the edge of it,
shatter its flow with monuments
and postcards. (Wish you were here.)
We watch the world with an eye for symbolism:
loss as an odyssey, and spring
as home. We see
the absurdity of things, and celebrate:
say prayers, read horoscopes,
and in these
grave times dance and drink to parting friends,
say formulas: See Naples! When you come home,
bring Rome!
This will be an enriching experience for
you, yes. And all those museums! My!
And real French wine,
if you like that kind of thing.
And we whisper to wolves in the snow,
Why must they go?
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