Mist after Rain

jo'b     

Dripping maples and oaks.

A raven calls.

The soul settles for an hour or two.

The Wind has Died

A.I.     

                              

                              My little boat,

                              Take care.

                              There is no

                              Land in sight.

                                                       — Charles Simic (1938-2023)

New York, Knopf, 2022 

Copyright, 2022, Charles Simic

Radio Zen

Summer in its second movement.                               jo'b   

I let it play softly

in my hip pocket,

strings and flutes,

maybe an oboe,

sustained notes,

interstellar melodies,

universal hums,

it keeps me calm

so I can focus

on the temporary joys,

(and aren't they all)

blackbirds rising from the wire

in modest murmuration,

a weave of swallows,

the toad in porchlight

at the kitchen door,

maple leaves turning over,

thunderheads building

and the wind rising—

summer in its second movement,

me in my fourth, softly.

Hemlock Trail

jo'b     

A cloud is on the mountain,

a divinity of mist

in the last few acres

of virgin forest.

I have kept my promise,

but nothing comes.

What is the difference

if not love?

Elemental

jo'b   

 

Lost for a moment

in the depth of a lily

and you to tell

Sunset on a Hilltop

jo'b   

               Warm and cool

               the veins of air we passed through

               down from the hill

               where we had seen the last ridge

               rise to cover the sun

               as we rolled back

               into the shadow of the earth.

               There was nothing else to say.

               It felt like forever,

               heading home,

               long ago.

Heat Stroke

jo'b    

I hung a sheet to block the sun        

A veil across the day        

In my steadying loneliness        

Diaphanous my dreaming now       

       

To savor my defeats       

Swimmers

jo'b   

 

                   I swim

                   in the richness of July

                   against the undertow

                   of time.

Shades

jo'b   

 

                              Thank you for welcoming me,

                              Phantoms of the periphery,

                              Faint souls there to the side

                              Who vanish when I turn to look,

                              You shy ghosts of caring,

                              But not yet, not yet.

The Beautiful Day

jo'b.  

               

               Such a cool, overcast morning,

               I am easily pleased, it doesn't take much,

               A slow-motion sky, soft weather, 

              The weeds of the field in bloom, even

               The invasives, like me, and then

               The bullfrogs grunting in the afternoon,

               Then the doves eulogizing the dusk.

               Such a day, such a day — how sweet it can be,

               Almost enough to make me believe

               The worst won't ever happen.

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