Sean J Mahoney

Regarding the note staked
in our front yard about the carpet
of leaves coloring our lawn, how,
I wonder, in the assessment
of the block, were they an eyesore.
I wonder how our neighbors
assumed an arbiter’s role
to Essence, privy to her whims
and the mysterious ways she falls
and blankets. She is, after all, things
and stuff. She melts the choral math
of the B-minor Mass into pod and decay
and curious loose associations.

The Jacarandas are late to show this year.
Panicles bellow just below skylines.
And elsewhere, larkspur shake up amid
the pastorals where cattle used to graze.
Winter took a pill. The seasons bleed
into each other in Southern California.
To appreciate the whisper of sudden growth
or unfolding one must kiss the barber.
The language here is of possibility,
as when dormant seed think of dance.

We people are not the same. We ask
what sorts of timepieces went into the cake
mix. We ask “When?” We ask “Why did you
say that?” and “What should I do now?”
We wonder why leaves follow us,
and how can a locket hold
the yellowed scrap of a promise from
a decade ago that is less human
yet more profound than
the ejaculate of flowers
and trees.