from Pink Dust
________________
I shovel a path
from the porch to the truck
and another around the house
to the back door, stopping
to see if I'm one
of those geezers
who have heart attacks
while shoveling snow,
and when I'm finished
I'm not. Look
at all that snow out there
going down the hill
as far as the eye can see.
=
In my sleep I caressed you
and when I woke up
I caressed the memory
of the dream.
I never caressed you
in "real life."
I never even wanted to
though I was close
to liking the idea of caressing you.
If I had caressed you
I would remember it,
which is what I did last night.
=
I almost feel sorry
for the human thumb,
off to the side, alone,
and not looking much like
its four nrothers and sisters—
the real fingers.
They invite the thumb
to help them when they need it,
but otherwise keep their distance.
Just across the way, though,
there's another thumb.
In the old days
the two used to twiddle.
Now they're happy enough
just knowing they're both there.
=
It's satisfying to eat
exactly the right amount
of, say, French toast
and then stop,
for you have just
achieved a moral victory
in the middle
of the flow of time,
and though it slows away,
this victory,
you have its aftertaste,
along with butter
and genuine Vermont maple syrup
from a tree not far down the road.
=
A haiku went up into a tree
and sat there on a limb
it had just made up.
__________________________
Ron Padgett
Pink Dust
New York Review of Books, 2025
