Tag: poetry

“Sleeping in the Forest”

I thought the earth remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

-Mary Oliver (“Twelve Moons”)

watching the sky fade from pale to paler
            what if we had made a life together?
the trees ask their questions
shivering in the almost darkness

one lamp lit
moth dying under it
toasting its little damp wings
calm and crying

the metal base of the lamp
catches it


Treat it more carefully
i said treat it more carefully

Amberdine looked at the bowl of waxy fruit
and the way the table cloth
hung there
limp and beautiful

off at work
he pioneers with his
pick axe
and comes home shouting

blood all down his front
raw meat in his hands

on the eve of the apocalypse
i will take you to where i know
there is one budding tree
            leaves now actually
i will take you there

“october at home”

the cat and dog are sunning themselves on the porch. some other, more wild animal is rummaging about in the leaves in the yard. they are dry and noisy, being this time of year. the cat’s ears swivel at the sound, but she doesn’t really move. the dog’s eyes are closed and she’s in the spot for optimal sun. the cat snuggles more into herself.

i can hear the train whistling from behind me, past glen place. i’m losing sun in my seat, the wind is blowing slightly, and some leaves are falling. the sky is completely, perfectly, absolutely blue. no clouds. trucks and cars rumble faintly in the distance, coming from ravensdale or the saw mill or further off. the noise combines with the rushing sound of wind. occasionally punctuated by an acorn banging on a deck or lawn chair at our house or the neighbor’s.

a contractor’s van goes by. up the street something sounds like it cracks or pops under its wheel. cleo rouses. in a sphinx pose her eyes get heavy again. the cat is looking at her. something still rummages in the yard.

look at

farm houses in the pink distance
i’m sick of grasping at straws

one light on one light off
deer or small cows in the foreground


each time i ask
              are we really going on with it?
this time

              we can’t go through it like that though
that’s going about it
all the wrong way

a carlight glimmers in the mush

reflection of a windmill
            spinning very fast
in non-traditional shape of modern building’s window