(After “Villanelle for an Anniversary,” by Seamus Heaney) A spirit moved. The gardener walked the yard. The mountain had been carved, the boulders massed. His shovel rusted, and the ground lay hard. Streams sighed in secret. Nothing stirred. Bamboo stood in silence, guarding past. A spirit moved, the gardener walked the yard. … Continue reading Villanelle for a Gardener
Month: May 2018
The Student
(After Theodore Roethke, “The Waking”) I wake to write, and take my writing slow. Daylight becomes dusk, the verse undone. Words grow wings and fly—where do they go? I learn by losses what I need to know. The proper words for grief—what do I know? When love passes one by— put that in… Continue reading The Student
The Empty Page: A Villanelle
The paper glares—naked, white. I nod, I stare, I cannot think, but it demands I try to write. I make up an excuse tonight: my printer has run out of ink. The paper glares—naked, white. To prime the pump, make things right, I think I’m going to need a drink. The paper says… Continue reading The Empty Page: A Villanelle
The Music of Friendship
The music of our friendship, a symphony, I think, of women growing older, our hearts played in sync. And belly laugh percussion the rhythm of our years, and shared sorrow sounds of pianissimo tears. Your hello’s brillante— it sparkles, like your eyes. Mine is more allegro— cheerful, uncontrived. Over time together our memories… Continue reading The Music of Friendship
Spring is the Thing
Spring is the shy thing— a new blade of grass peeking its face out from under the thatch, to see what the sun brings, to listen to birds sing … timid, and wondering if winter’s passed. Spring is to green what grass is to spring, and the burst of ozone during a rain, when… Continue reading Spring is the Thing
The Book of Life
Breath and death— the rhyming twins that book-end life at both its ends— how life begins and when it ends— and all our time is spent within. A dearth of breath, and death creeps in— how you live within depends. (Birth and death are friends, of course, though not as dear-- their rhyming worse.) The… Continue reading The Book of Life
Ode to the Hudsonian Godwit
Through blue-black night, and wind and sullen storms— a boreal bird on cold Atlantic air— you fly non-stop 7,000 miles to where the southern wetlands welcome you back home. A tracker marks your epic nine-day flight from Canada to Argentina shore. You double weight beforehand for the chore, and steer by memory and by starry… Continue reading Ode to the Hudsonian Godwit