Ralph Skip Stevens
Bio Note: I recently moved from a small Maine island to a small Maine city, which is a lot different from a hunk of granite in the Atlantic Ocean, a different source of poetry. I am currently looking for the poems that my new location wants me to have and things are going okay so far. Meanwhile, the following were inspired by Little Cranberry Island and are in the working draft of my new collection.
Devices and Desires
The snow that fell last night has covered the brown grass, scars in the road where pot holes were filled, the roof of the house next door with its thinning shingles, worn black by beating rain and we sit here just looking at that spotless expanse, as if snow never shrank away in the sun. As if our eyes would not grow tired of pure appearance and might forget the dented earth beneath. Is it an intimation of paradise this delight, waking to the world immaculate? And what of other transformations, after the snow melts and trees and lawns are green again? Are these Eden’s residuals, an act of mercy to give us hope? Or are they only the devices and desires of our hearts?
A Meditation in Rain
It drips from the roof steady as an engine idling, a reassurance as of onions frying, of radiators ticking, warming up in a cold dawn. There’s the faint sound of deer feeding on the buds of saplings in the spring or the sound of glaciers calving, ice waking after endless sleep. And what of the roar of an avalanche late at night after the skiers have gone to bed so tired they cannot hear it? Perhaps the rumble of a giant dwarf star collapsing in a galaxy a hundred light years away, on earth no more than the rustle of the homeless man on his cardboard, of sparrows finding a house, the swallow building a nest, where her young will crack the shell of their silent world.
©2020 Ralph Skip Stevens
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