Nature's Manual Poem by Jasen Sousa (For My Aunt)

Nature's Manual

An empty pair of slippers rests

next to the leg of an empty chair. A newly

started book, spine arched at a curious

angle by the window. Steam from near-by simmering coffee

dissipates as shadows nap underneath bridges waiting

to dance with sunrise.

Blinking traffic lights sway in shallow puddles

without anyone else on the road to interfere. A long

winter, almost over, camping mounds of stubborn snow

still not fully melted. Slopping branches of leafless

sycamore trees tap your shoulders,

eager for a reunion.

Cafes in the local square have shut down

for the evening, unaware of what you had left to spend. You gaze

through a toy store window, drawn to trains

that never stop traveling, drawn

to a smirking clown who makes you forget

you ever aged at all.

It is getting late and you hear your parents

calling you home. They have neatly tucked in

your chair, put away your slippers, and left a dim light

on in your room, just bright enough for you to see

what is necessary when you arrive.

And when you awake in spring

you will be welcomed by wondering skies

painted auburn by hands no longer restricted