The Memoirist

Wassily Kandinsky

Wassily Kandinsky

The windows
of the old aging house
no longer afforded a view
In part for the creeping forest
In part for their never being washed
But he had never depended on them
his vision of the world wrought
as it was in an imagination
too old from his youth
to be taught

His world`view
was a jig`saw`puzzle
assembled on a card`table
each piece another odd memory
misshapen by that repeated editing
from which every memoirist suffers
the pieces all now so edge`worn
they fit together anywhere
everywhere to suit his
l`humeur du jour

So he never saw
the song`birds disappear
from the fir`tree’s branches
Never missed the doe & her fawns
browsing along the edges of the lane
leading up to his house’s front porch
Never heard the somber bell tolling
from the old village steeple
announcing to neighbors
the old man’s death

‘Of all the animals blind at birth,
people see farthest.
To be born human is a window
and blindness a practice.’ ~ David Guterson

About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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6 Responses to The Memoirist

  1. kiwiskan says:

    Oh, this is sadder than mine – my excuse is it’s the middle of winter here – what is yours…


  2. kiwiskan says:

    great poetry though


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