Bio Note: I am a husband and father, happily celebrating our son's wedding this month. I am also a correspondent covering regional news for the Boston Globe, a fiction writer, and poet. Recent publications include poems in Terror House Magazine, a story in Jerry Jazz Musician, and a collection of linked stories, titled House Stories published by Adelaide Books.
The Thing About Spring
Once more the world, the landscape, the place, the thing – everything that we are not greens up, like a laugh in the heart of a creature in love Something is loving the world Once again people do not entirely matter The slaughter of the innocents enacted in this or that corner of the world is not, to all appearances, the only story Once more, before our eyes the face of The Other changes, the object of perception What do the philosophers make of this? Do they say – like us? – the eyes of my eyes may now be freshly engaged, transfixed, that the miracle has shaken the grip of our disbelieving heart? Our eyes do not deceive us, but relieve us of the chains of reason We are not the dried stalk of some drying creature, the dead-end climax of a rat chewing its leg from a trap, but the ecstatic children released from the prison house of material obligations, frowning routine, persnickety persistence and all such denatured matters, schooled-out, recessed to enter once more the playground of awakened senses and thumb our nose at the jailhouse of Time
Heroes of the Arboretum
Japanese Hornbeam, something Spruce or Fir, then regal Hemlock lifting blessings to the sky: A frozen sway of pleasure, gathering applause, royal command and gesture of acknowledgment to all these fellow green and overflowing giants Poets of wood, soil, penetration of the depths, rooting in the love of neighbors, time-grown articulation of the limbs Living narratives Age-old fruits of earth Roomy houses, their airborne hospitality the village of communal life Minters of green and opulent wealth flowing from the source of all true health Money in the bank of all that speeds on earth Persevering home for those who breathe, drink water, feed upon the soil or air They themselves the heart-wood fruits of endless, light-consuming mysteries Sons and daughters of the sky Stilt-walkers looming on a spinning orb Roots in silent long embrace of subtle, subterranean bonds with all that live below Eaters of sky, neighbors of clouds Guardians of fleshly creatures that dwell below Silent gods of the City on the Hill: Protectors of a tribal love
At Arnold Arboretum, Boston. 05.01.22
The Truth About Summer
Which I spy, lurking somewhere in the still patchy grass. Not yet have you shown your heavy hand, your face, the glitter of your eye, but still we espy you lingering about the new minty green of the trees: The dealer on the corner, offering new clothes, fast cars, fleshly revelations And all those leafy hidden children among the creeping and crawling red-warning vines, sons of the burning-stroke, noonday demons that twine together into a silken rooftop of conquering green, trees that close their permissive limbs over high-noon temptations, that splendor in the grass. Still, I see through you, through lime-green leaves, pastel blossoms of fruity and ornamental pretense, forerunner of mighty oaks that close above the dewy dawns and floral carpets of liberated great estates, and forest kingdoms with parking lots and useful brochures, to your towering daystar that tosses dainty spring into the shade and drowns the trills of April when nesting songs are on the wing, dries the rills, the vernal basins, home to all those flash-in-the-pan shiners and winged darlings of May, silvery spawn that fly and flitter in the heydays quickly counting down. Summer hefts the heavy wings of humid skies, looses thunderous pronouncements, makes judgments from which no appeal can be permitted, dries the taste of youthful inspiration in the slough of heavy-laden hours spent recalling the slipstream of spring’s quick moment while predicting with a yearning heart those heavy-laden days of fruitful fall.
©2022 Robert Knox
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