Last night’s rain has filled the fields with cornflowers, blue-bright as moons in children’s books, all milky light. They seem, my father says, the kind of color that could show up in the night. Cornflowers wilt in heat. By noon the sun will burn the fields green, as if no bloom had known them. I…
As we change the past, so are we changed. These words, from Eleanor Wilner’s essay "Playing the Changes," are striking for how profoundly they speak not only to the poet and to the practice of poetry—indeed the practice of all art—but for how appropriately they also reveal the human situation—or at least, that impulse within us…
Some days the pond wears a glaze of yellow pollen. Some days it is clean-swept. The trout leap up, feasting on insects. A modest size, it sits like a soup tureen in a surround of white pine where Rosie, 14 lbs., some sort of rescued terrier, part bat (the ears), part anteater (the nose), shyly paddles…
Because I could be written anywhere, I loved the hard surface of the blade, my name carved into barn doors, desktops, the peeled face of a shag-bark hickory. I pressed my whole weight into it, letters grooved deep as the empty field rows along Tri-Lakes where I’d seen my cousin Nick buried in ground so…
Every once in a while, it’s true: I get sick of dying. Iambic ghosts choiring their lovely, churchless songs, All the lines of the poem leaning toward terminus Like rows of low windbent weeds— …
They mouthed the surface of the creek for nymphs tasting their temporary life or striders sculling the tension that was neither water nor air but border, merely. The way a dream nibbles at awareness, the sunnies dared the surface. From the footbridge I saw them school in the little depth below the watercolor that was…
I see the lion as the lion sees the girl he slowly devours in a silent film— a flash of sun-torn flesh— before the vision fades. How foolish she was to wander the woods alone, forgetting the warnings, the memory she had of herself before the woods became a thought from which the lion leapt,…
Limited, the body’s vocabulary cannot always say what it feels, what it wants, what it is. Unendurable, this voicescrape, a song bird lashed to my throat— Where can I escape from thy spirit? Where can I flee from…
Don’t get up, don’t give me that talk about I’m sorry and Look at the woods how beautiful the woods are when the snow flits through those holes I punched in the treetops, said God. God said, I don’t care if your knees get muddy, I don’t care if your dinner burns, …
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