Thinking of you
I found a note you’d written to me
too many years ago. You said
Good luck whatever you choose to do
and, later, It makes no sense to me
when referring to something
someone else had chosen to do. Oh,
you, me, him, her – who were those people
so far off now, as far as the hawk seems
banking over Rough Ridge in the late warmth
of a November afternoon, a dot in the blue?
Maybe we don’t choose and merely disappear
into what we do before each day is done
and we move on where time flows
like the Ida, sometimes above sometimes
below ground, emerging here and there
for no obvious reason I can think of
when thinking I’m thinking of you.
Brian Turner