Continuance

Continuance

Early morning I adjust my hearing aids. 

The clock ticks louder, winding down.

Once a week I wind it up to boost the chimes

that mark another quarter hour as history,

while the story of my life moves on.

Yesterday a friend called.  His voice was far.

We talked like everything was still the same.

After we hung up, I stepped outside to loose

the oak from the rod I used four years ago

to prop it straight:  “You’re on your own.”

Cottonwoods echoed my voice, no wind. 

The sun went down.  My son stopped by

to announce the birth of his ninth grandson.

Together we took down the flag, folded it

into a neat triangle—thirteen folds,

one for each colony, no red exposed.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        23 March 2012