January 2016
I'm a poet and writer living for the past six years in the South Jersey shore area. I moved here from North Jersey in 2009 after the 2008 death of my husband William J. (Bill) Higginson, author of The Haiku Handbook, to be closer to my daughter and family. I'm a mom, grandma, and sometimes poet-teacher for the NJSCA. My work has appeared in many journals, and in twenty-some books (including chapbooks). I read at the Dodge Festival in 2010, and have enjoyed two poetry residencies at VCCA (January 2011; March 2015). Please visit my website:www.2hweb.net/penhart and my blog: http://penhart.wordpress.com
Darning Socks
The hole usually wears in the heel
after the wool has thinned, so that
held against the morning, one sees
a patchwork, a woven crossing
of strands. And then the hole,
appears, calling for needle and yarn,
for stitches to be made around the
circle or tear, then criss-crossed back
and forth to weave endurance, to patch
what can be for a little longer.
Wounds after surgery are often closed
with staples, or glued against chance
opening. Inner wounds are stitched
by skilled surgeons whose hands
have practiced darning flesh.
Whether socks or mortal meat be
mended, held up to either sun or moon
the sky will break through, haloing
the edges of all wounds, then sealing
them with light.
Mid-January Dream of the World Without Us
On the greening grass, two scarlet leaves, fused
by a smudge of leaf-mold at center, glisten with
a trace of last night’s rain.
In the cerulean sky, more clear than we remember,
the sun bathes the Earth—announcing nearby star,
provider of all life.
We were negligent—foolish not to contemplate
the heavens more often, or cherish fallen leaves
in the ready chalice of our palms.
Now a skein of blackbirds wheels and wheels
far above the naked trees—a single bird-mind
flinging it against the plum horizon.
And water cycles through the clouds and seas,
feeding forest life and fallow fields, carving
canyons in ancestral hills.
These have all endured, though we are done—
these, and whatever else survived our blind
meddling in their communal lives; survived
our hubris in believing we alone were destined
to inherit the Earth and the fullness thereof—
we who now have lost the primordial garden.
-from The Resonance Around Us (Mountains & Rivers Press, 2013)
The hole usually wears in the heel
after the wool has thinned, so that
held against the morning, one sees
a patchwork, a woven crossing
of strands. And then the hole,
appears, calling for needle and yarn,
for stitches to be made around the
circle or tear, then criss-crossed back
and forth to weave endurance, to patch
what can be for a little longer.
Wounds after surgery are often closed
with staples, or glued against chance
opening. Inner wounds are stitched
by skilled surgeons whose hands
have practiced darning flesh.
Whether socks or mortal meat be
mended, held up to either sun or moon
the sky will break through, haloing
the edges of all wounds, then sealing
them with light.
Mid-January Dream of the World Without Us
On the greening grass, two scarlet leaves, fused
by a smudge of leaf-mold at center, glisten with
a trace of last night’s rain.
In the cerulean sky, more clear than we remember,
the sun bathes the Earth—announcing nearby star,
provider of all life.
We were negligent—foolish not to contemplate
the heavens more often, or cherish fallen leaves
in the ready chalice of our palms.
Now a skein of blackbirds wheels and wheels
far above the naked trees—a single bird-mind
flinging it against the plum horizon.
And water cycles through the clouds and seas,
feeding forest life and fallow fields, carving
canyons in ancestral hills.
These have all endured, though we are done—
these, and whatever else survived our blind
meddling in their communal lives; survived
our hubris in believing we alone were destined
to inherit the Earth and the fullness thereof—
we who now have lost the primordial garden.
-from The Resonance Around Us (Mountains & Rivers Press, 2013)
©2016 Penny Harter