Blue, Green, Red and Purple: In An Old House
…time is nothing but an abstraction
of our own making…
Betty Collins sets down in words what many feel, but are unable to shape into thoughts.
So by the fire sit the dogs.
The warmth soaks through the smelly hair
while the soft dream of life
and the dream which is death
is one long moment, or none:
So in yester year,
or yester decade
lay some other dogs
while the same dream, the same scent
was present and was past.
Here one can easily forget:
here one can easily remember
that time is nothing but an abstraction
of our own making: for with the absence of change
in the picture, of change in the circumstances,
what meaning is there in the falling leaves of autumn,
in the smoke and embers fading up the chimney,
or the sliding shapes of pools
shining darkly in the red gravel driveway
from the falling rain.
Tomorrow, the fire burns:
and by the fire
sit two dogs.
Does it matter
that they are not the same two dogs?
that it is not the same fire burning?
that it is not the same year,
nor even the same entity observing?
