Note to self

Yahweh,
Jehovah,
Zeus, Thor, Athena
or whatever the fuck your name is
This seventy-degree, Indian summer afternoon
Reminds me that you have at least temporarily emerged from your hole in the rock
To clear the clouds from this slow sun-setting sky
And fade the leaves on the tree in front of me just enough
To see her skeleton
And remember just how much longer this fairest of the seasons will go on

As an offering to your erratic eminence
I will go for a run
Follow through on that job offering
Make another grilled cheese sandwich
Or perhaps a quiche
And try to remember this day when I am surrounded by pavement and dystopia in Brooklyn

Thank you for this evening
Thank you for yesterday evening
And last Saturday, for that matter
Thank you also for that one afternoon in Mississippi
Thank you for Tom Waits thank you for Caetano Veloso thank you for Milton Nascimento
Thank you most of all for Milton Nascimento
And choral music
And garlic
Thank you for this breeze, which raises a brief, yet lasting reminder of your presence
In a life as small and beautiful as mine

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