These Days

These are the days when the trees will sing their windy caterwauls,
And imprism the light in ravenous bloom.

Young men will cock their heads akimbo, prowling like drunken wolves,
Ravenous, yet languidly falling to a feast.

Young women will sway brightly as their steps approximate a dance,
A reel, hurdy-gurdy tuned, like the rise and fall of some giant cylinder,
Pulling you deeper into its core,
A bingo wheel, a threshing stone.

The old will roll their eyes and pucker their mouths inward,
As if trying to taste the memories inside themselves,
Gone too far in space and time to even speak:
"Yes. Yes. You know me well."

Children will scream, if only to hear themselves scream,
Proving conclusively the existence of their vocal chords and the air they vibrate,
A prelude to the future,
The endless task of asserting:
"Yes, I am. Yes, I exist."

The streetbeds will clamor with the sounds of more feet,
The roar of eager cars,
The swish of seasoned bicycles.

The skies will creak and clatter.
They'll moan and wail,
Swirling at a pace tempting wild speculation,
Charts littering the walls,
Machines wracking with hums,
Men who speak in half-truth percentages
And eyes in space.

And though these things all speak their own words,
Their own signs and gasps in the firmament,
Together they call:

"The time is here and now and short,
So love these days in their passing.
The heat will come; the cold will frost,
And bake these days to memory,
To harken their return again."