How hypocritical I am to teach a workshop

on observation and imagery, then hurry

towards the restroom, paying no attention

to the bursting pink flowers (belladonna lilies,

I later learn), their dark & naked stems, the vibrant

texture of the towering South African reed-bush,

my friend sitting on a sunny bench by the lake,

the tree pockmarked with pimply knobs, the baby

throwing a tantrum at the edge of the field

(splayed on her back & supremely upset, but from afar

appearing small and endearing), the resonance

of my sneakered steps thrumming on the paved path,

the relentless geese pecking at grass, ferocious

as chickens, Sutro Tower in the background

shrouded (of course) in fog, the dampness

of the air post-morning rain, the subtly pungent smell

of dirt, and only after I use the restroom realize

that it is the third anniversary of my grandmother’s death

(not having forgotten but having just remembered

again, as can happen with these things), and I have not

stopped to observe my own self on this day,

which is also my birthday, or the weight

of this coincidence connecting us forever, or the grief

that I still don’t know how to hold, or

how beautiful and cruel it is to continue living

through life’s loud and ceaseless rhythms

while autumn lurks in every deciduous leaf