A recently minted poem in Nimrod
The back door,
hanging by its heels,
and it’s November again.
Outside, Pittosporum berries,
orange and whiskey-scented,
have fallen to the ground.
But there will be no snow,
no bears in the driveway,
and no frozen pond, its murky waters
gone veined and milky as glass.
It’s good the way we invent what we need,
catering our lives with beginnings and endings,
the way I look backwards wearing disasters
on my sleeve while you plan ahead,
search for joy in every potted plant, and
it’s as if here,
where winter never really comes,
we have learned
to rely on our inner clocks
and let the seasons
reach inch by inch
into the soil of ourselves.