The cedar rocking chair
on the south verandah
is cooler to the old man’s touch,
but the effortless rocking
is unchanged.
The jackpines reach
for a layered sky,
where the blue,
though darkened
by the westering sun,
has a solidity that allows
passage to legions
of graying cumulus clouds.
The orangeness of the late-season light
provides impressionist contrast
to the silhouette of the leafless maples,
the last leaves crumpled
in a root-blanket beneath
the dark, slim, naked branches.
A lone bluejay laments,
from the torii,
the passing of the light.
The beagle finds a warm place
by the brick chimney,
safely clear of the man’s
rocking meditation.
Down the harbour
the palette knife
of the November breeze
plays Marc Chagall
to merge a vibrant sea and sky.
There is an anthem in the wind:
a triumphant paean
to change, to death, to renewal.
The man acknowledges
the lessons of the scene,
sighs,
and takes the dog inside.