You asked for the purpose
of the volumes and volumes
shelved in disorder
and my mind clouded over.
The purpose is no more or less meaningful
than the comfort of home
amidst the smell of roast turkey
and buttery potatoes.
When deep harvest gold is the air
and umber are the leaves that
crackle in the wind.
A question to the tune
of Bach's most underrated
or the very word Canto.
A question that brings to mind
soft rains in early morning pallor.
Amidst pages of mind
anger becomes an unread manuscript
buried by a thousand years of history.
And the anxiety and worry of sickness,
pain, and mortality are less significant
than the petal caught by the gale.
I countered the question
with the purpose of a handshake
or of saying
hello to a stranger.
It's been what it's always been:
It's never possible
to know enough people.