Illusions

How this day goes on, and there seems
no end to its giving: how the slivers
in the tall grass cut my arms as I carry them
to the trash bin, leaving marks that will fade
into skin, into nothing the eye will observe
in a few days, how the dog, released from
her encampment, has tromped through
the green perennials until I am sure
they are afraid to push themselves back
up again, how the blood has warmed in my cold
body until I think there is nothing cold anywhere
on this earth, except perhaps the longings,
leaning ever to the right in the brisk wind,
how days are when death is near, or sickness
overcomes and every minute feels the hours
bought and sold, the immune system deciphering
codes of healing and grace, how it feels there will be
no better even when the broth has soothed and the fever
breaks, and I wonder why it is that the day
only seems short when there is happiness,
or a sense of accomplishment, as if longevity
could be measured in such terms, some strange
barometer hanging on a wall in an empty room,
its colored water fading, its purpose losing
more each day, failing as all things do at some
point, to deliver happy or distressing news,
and those foolish enough to rely on things
like barometers or hours become untethered,
like a kite let loose from a child's hands, tears
flowing from her eyes, her father
telling her it's just the nature of kites to fly
on, to leave, to find themselves at home
in the blue, not too terribly unlike the blue
of your eyes, he says, as he looks into your eyes,
the grayish-blue wisdom of his own calling it a day.