My shoes are in the garden.

My shoes are in the garden.  Facing the white hyacinths.  But I am not there.

I might be under the tousled covers in the bedroom at the end of the hall on the left. Waking to see the girl I was at seventeen.  Sitting at the end of the bed.

Or I might be in the portico having my morning coffee with my dog.  Who will eventually turn, look at me and say, “I have loved you.  You have been a good friend.”

My shoes are in the garden but I am not there.

I might be at my desk in the studio writing to you.  Telling you that I am uncertain.  I have never known.

I could be walking down the driveway.  Because it is shady.    Avoiding the splotches of sunlight.  It is very hot.

If I am in my car I am driving on a road I do not know.  I choose that.

If I am meeting you I will not be late.  I have done that and I feel the weight of making you sit alone in a place not of your choosing.

If I am speaking to my daughter I will tell her the things that she does not know. Does not know about me.  Things I want her to know in that vast scape of time when I will not be.

My shoes are in the garden facing the white hyacinths.  But I am not there.