Up From Under Down

Midnight, January

Up again

from under down

at midnight

in the mountains

to throw a log

onto the fire

and free the cat

who vanishes

into the dwindling woodpile.

Watching the Squall

 

Stubble in parallel rows

bends over the hill

to where the snow devils rage

against black woods.

Hear the trees moan.

In times of lies and violence

he likes the black keys best,

the cellos and French horns,

he likes the lights down low,

the alto requiems.

In vintage wool

he can forget,

watching the squall,

snow piling up

on his shoulders.

A Mirror Held to Music

W. Eugene Smith, Walnut Street, Pittsburgh, 1950s.

Surely it was too much

to expect our fragment of time

to become eternity

But the card you sent

showed something of yourself

with so few words

And you quoted Neruda

as we rode out of the tunnel

into the propellers of sunset

Everything

seemed possible

I thought

this would be easier

My soul is created

by thousands of images

I cannot erase.

Born Again

 

On a clear cold night in January

Good for radio reception from distant stations

Some saver of souls in the middle of the continent

Drifts like crushed glass in moonlight

I think of you too.

(Winter)

 

The shape of the wind

When the wind dies

Her wry smile

Her love without condition

Snow and shadow

On a fallow field

Our days are numbered

Burner Phone Sonnet

Sad and wild enough

Sergio Larrain, untitled, London 1958 

Aperture, Paris, 2013

When you finally called

and didn't speak,

I knew it was you,

it could be only you,

who else would call

and say nothing

and know I'd know

so many years later,

who else is sad enough,

who else is wild enough,

who else would call

and not speak,

who else would say nothing,

who else besides me?

Turkeyfoot Trail

Turkeyfoot Trail, Native American Path

Wind haunts the distances,

open, dormant fields

where once great forests stood,

an ancient, silver sound

of souls who passed this way

from mountain glades 

to where the waters meet,

beings in animal skins

trying hard to stay alive,

needing food and warmth and love,

caring for each other, fearing death,

not so different from ourselves—

stop and listen by their path—

we will be among them soon enough,

silver, singing wind.

Before Sunrise at Year's End

Unable to sleep

I step outside

in the grounded dark,

the sky and me

in our tragic robes.

Nothing moves

except the clouds,

no sound except

the dripping from the roof.

My premonition

that something fine awaits me

just further up the road,

where did it go?

And can this quiet teach me

what I need to know?

 

—with a premonition from Charles Simic

Old Barns

 

The old Lephart barn,

By rains and by winds

Beaten beautiful

Over three lifetimes,

Lovely in abandonment.

We hope for as much

From one.

Walking Laurel Ridge

Walking Laurel Ridge

already late enough so soon

the twilight cold and quiet

the path to the cabin

strewn with branches and briars

as deeper you stride

into this delicate balance

leaving behind what you must

the voices receding

as you wait for weak stars

little by little

to burn through thin clouds.

—after Mary Oliver's The Journey