There Is

There is something sad
in nearly everything
we do.

Waiting for the walk
sign
to turn.

Cutting the hedge.
Making change.

Throwing away half an apple,
or a whole apple,
or just the core.

Making murals
for churches.

Visiting the houses
where our grandmothers chose
to sit in chairs.

In blindness,
in fishing,
in dissecting an owl pellet;
in poison ivy
still,

in an inch worm reaching.

The face of a woman
like a seashell,
and she isn’t even that
old
really.

Or, in carrying an umbrella
like an ax
through the cemetery

and finding the grave
pressed into the ground there,
like the head of a nail on a
board.

And soon,
it doesn’t matter
if your feet are wet.
It doesn’t matter if your head is heavy
or if your car is far away.

You can go back,
you can take it off,
you’ve got time,
you can.

And there is something sad
in that too.

And you know what I mean by
sad—