Is it time yet?
As I study you,
I think not.
You have decided
not to show yourself,
and I can see
no further into you.
Let us wait together,
and here and there
take turns teasing,
poking, putting on —
and perhaps by accident
reveal a surprise
to us both.
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This is part of a modest string of poems. They are collected on this page: https://5h2o.wordpress.com/my-window-at-night/.
Breathe air into my words.
Give them spaciousness,
room to roam and be flexed,
to be held, warmed,
to have fingers run across them,
pausing, to know the sense
of being swallowed bit by bit,
or held on the tongue.
Let them open up onto the prairie
to play in all the adventure
of the wide, clear spaces,
to be enthralled by what is plain,
to unwrap the spider’s web,
trace the trails of rain,
how the breeze clips the edges
of the grass, but no more.
I.
Four white roses bud
in the scorching August sun
with care, confidence.
II.
The sun loots our patch
in its hegemonic rage.
We defend this space.
III.
Rain, drench us through.
The heat swells, crackles, moans —
grant your persuasion.
IV.
Four white roses bud
in the soulless August sun,
pressing their case.
Hand raised,
palm forward —
you call us to be blessed.
Eyes knowing,
from the other world —
you see within.
Gold rim of the lampshade
crowning your tussled hair —
your soft presence draws us near.
Blackberry jam
smeared across your lips
(and cheeks) —
all angels beseech you.
Perfect being
with sticky fingers —
bless us.
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Today we are packing up to bring our youngest son, John, to college tomorrow. Although this is truly his time, I cannot escape the impact on us. This picture was taken when John was two and enjoying a good, messy breakfast — and unexpectedly looking kinda like baby Jesus (maybe it’s a Catholic thing). The poem was the first posted when I started a few months ago. It seems like the most fitting way to mark this very exciting passage is to repost this picture and poem, and then, well, just jump into the breach!
Spare enough for frozen
flower branches to scratch
the icy kitchen window,
rain-soaked goldenrod to brush
against her dress,
evenings of lost, tender fears
spying down the empty lane,
long, hot afternoon delays,
awaiting a dry spell to take up
the mowing, the mending, the swinging.
Wide open, ever-joyful tedium.
The birches down the pasture
now stand too broad and stiff
for anything but looking on.
Here, there, a spider poses a question,
a brook hides underground,
a faded blue aster flower
waits in the headless aftermath,
a breeze holds its rushing breath —
all lonely for your witnessing.
—————————-
My brother and I had the opportunity to visit Robert Frost’s farm in Derry, New Hampshire, last week. Lovely place.
Poems from in between 