Cary Waterman


I’ve cleaned out my files,
Shed skin and papers,
check registers,
my tax returns for the 90’s,
directions for the electric waffle maker,
receipts for drugs I needed,
auto insurance stubs,
my assets
my debits.

In the park the gnats are out
and they are biting.
The sky’s a dreamy blue.
Trees twirl in their fall dresses.
And an old Blue Heron flies over
from lake to river.
She doesn’t own much.
Only her long legs
stretched out like pencils
writing the weather.

How it Begins

Listening to Brahms’ Intermezzo in A Minor
composed when he was 60,
I unbutton my shirt,
slide my fingers through my skin
and slowly separate my ribs.

Then gently, but definitely,
I push my ego
away from my heart.

Talking Weather in the New Year

Two black crows send greetings from the red-berried Mountain Ash.
When I die what I’ll miss most: the touch of air on my skin.

When he wrote the Ninth Symphony
Beethoven was way past thought, beyond thinking.

Black beaks dive on deerskin snow-humped on the road’s shoulder.
Behind the trees something big and white, just ready to step out.

A life-lengthening hormone has been found in mouse research.
Coral clustered berries only meditate on now.

At 63, almost 64, all I have are questions.
I never dreamt it would be this way.