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| Heirloom European pear |
All night
the idling engine of the wind
pushes against the house,
the seasons changing.
I wish I could hear more
in the dark,
my grandfather's cough,
my daughter's sigh,
the chatter of juncos
flying north.
Come morning,
wide shadows of the clouds
sweep across the field.
I open the windows,
put in the screens.
But nothing is finished.
Listen, it's modern times everywhere,
officials criss-crossing the sky,
hostages to power and wealth.
I'm glad I'm not important
and can walk around in the yard,
maybe sit with the dog
under the old pear tree,
hollow, but ready to bloom.
Maybe, come evening
we'll set up a chair
down by the road
and watch the deer
stepping out of the woods,
cautious and quiet in the hollow,
hungry and peaceful
in the shadow of the earth.
—after Lorenzo Thomas' Displacement
