Bringing the Horses Home


Four big horses coming around the curve
          of our house, big horses like those that knights
used to ride, headed up the street to
 
the C&D Bar, maybe to have a beer.
          In a snow storm these marching beauties,
my neighbor's horses, shouldn't be out
 
for a walk while he is away. Oh, boy,
          I say, what's to be done? I step out to
the street to speak with them. Whoa, boys, I say,
 
you shouldn't be out here. They stop and look
          at me. Several tons of horse flesh and one
former farm-boy poet. This will never
 
do, boys, I say. Let's get you to the barn.
          Another neighbor gets behind them
and pushes as I talk their way towards home.
 
They follow. Once in the barn, they force me
          against the far wall, these several tons
of horse flesh stamping now where they belong.
 
I step between two of them and slap them
          apart, then the other two. I close and latch
the gate behind me, even as the snow continues.
 
Horses' breath still steams the air. I don't know
          exactly what it is, but I stand there
thinking, Whatever it is, I've still got it.
 




Imagination's Place
 

Old wood of this desk,
marked with the weight
 
of my amazement.
Stained dark, it is weary
 
of my bad habits.
Yet we are in this
 
together, one of us
leaning on the other,
 
one of us pushing back.
The edges dissolve — 
 
I am the tree it was,
wind in my leaves now.
 
We are set to fly from here.
We are set to cry, to laugh.
 
There is no turning back.
 

 

Season, Turning


No lemon trees
in Fairwater
though we are
 
growing seasons
warmer than we were.
All this moisture
 
flies like clouds,
the sky a winter
color. Who promises
 
that things will be
better, that our days
are full-blossomed
 
repetition, that
what we need is
within our reach?
 

 


                                             The Pine
 
 
                                                Do not,
 
                                    my pine
 
                                                            tree says,
 
                        be afraid
                                                                        of death.
 
                                                Just keep
 
            tossing



                                                                                    down your
                                                cones as
 
                                                long as
                                                you can.




 
All the Universe
 
 
All the universe
but one bubble
in a swirling pot
beyond us. So much
 
more than we know,
those other places
we cannot reach.
 
All the life and death
and resurrection
of endless others,
we think it matters.
 
This universe, too,
this moment, matters,
until it doesn't.