What is it about rows of corn stubs
flipping past, electrical wires sagging
in sync with the tracks, whistle beaming
out to snow-flat fields, clumps of houses,
trees so far away you think of desert,
that pulls me back to dream-like chatter,
long nights on empty roads? We meet again
in this rhythmic void, away from every-
where that is any place, away from any
precise memory even, but somehow rejoined
in this wide open endlessness, orange sun
spreading under soft navy clouds.
starry white
droplets line tree branches,
fragile, falling,
constellations, signs,
against March’s gray realm
rain baptizes
the yard, field, streets, river
from winter’s hold
opening the frightened ground
flowing through it and forward
Reserve time for poetry in April,
for when the days get longer, we turn out
after our deep hermitage, rushing
too fast to learn from the budding world.
Reserve time for poetry in July
when the hammering sun tempts you
to spend your best hours dozing,
as the herons skim the river.
Reserve time for poetry in September
when you are wizened to spin against nature’s
endless detritus and to button up under
even the softest bluster of coming solitude.
Reserve time for poetry in December
as the season sweeps you away
and piles you with ancient customs
you must never love too much.
The world does not think of you as it rolls by,
so you must think of it:
it does not stop to warm your soul,
so you must stop and warm its;
it does not offer you its heart,
so you must offer it yours.
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Thinking of my oldest son graduating from college in a few weeks and how he is taking the grownup world so seriously …
Poems from in between 