Postcard


Postcard
for Winston Fuller
There is no absence of self in such poems. The whatness of the moment is always someone’s awed account of having been there.  It is always a postcard from one soul to another.
The curtains float
from summer windows
as in a Wyeth painting
 
All the little mountains
dug up by moles
dollop the backyard
as do too many ripe apples
and the soup-ready mysteries
of stinging nettles
rendered delectable
by mere water.
 
The red foxes
and the hedgehogs
are shy by day
as I am by night:
we meet
only in dreams.
 
But last night
on the way home
well past my usual hour
I saw them both–
or was it a dream?–
and we congregated
by the light of the stars
and wished each other
sweet dreams, good night,
a world at rest.

Schreiben Sie gerne einen Kommentar!