I am standing outside
in Minnesota
ghost wind recalling
names in winter mist
The road smells
of dogs two days dead
White photographers talk in
the house of mainstream
media
I can’ t articulate
the agony of Eagle Singer’ s
children to them.
Snow would be the easy
way out — that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches
but the rain won’ t give.
So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,
memorizing
So this is aging: the bare sun, skinned,
palely bucking the dark wind,
slides through the glass, crawls on the carpet,
climbs the footboard, lies crosswise on the blanket,
a spoiled dog waiting to be fed.
Not now, dear warmth. The kindling’ s in the shed,
too far to fetch. Those two great logs that close
together to make fire, repose
apart, an old couple reminiscing
on conflagrations they’ re now missing:
how every sunny Saturday afternoon,
Hey, diddle-diddle, the dish ran away with the spoon.
Now goth sonne under wod:
Me reweth, Marye, thy faire rode.
Now goth sonne under tree:
Me reweth, Marye, thy sone and thee.
Now I knew I lost her —
Not that she was gone —
But Remoteness travelled
On her Face and Tongue.
Alien, though adjoining
As a Foreign Race —
Traversed she though pausing
Latitudeless Place.
Elements Unaltered —
Universe the same
But Love's transmigration —
Somehow this had come —
Henceforth to remember
Nature took the Day
I had paid so much for —
His is Penury
Not who toils for Freedom
Or for Family
But the Restitution
Of Idolatry.
When I lay me down to Sleep,
I recommend my self to his care;
when I awake, I give my self up to his Direction.
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o’erflow with wine,
Let well-turned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.
On my birthday
A crow guffaws, dirty man throwing the punch of his
one joke. And now, nearer, a murder
answers, chortling from the pale hill’ s brow.
From under my lashes’ wings they stretch
clawed feet. There the unflappable years
perch and stare. When I squint, when I
grin, my new old face nearly hops
off my old new face. Considering what’ s flown,
what might yet fly, I lean my chin
on the palm where my half-cashed fortune lies.
I like the generosity of numbers.
The way, for example,
they are willing to count
anything or anyone:
two pickles, one door to the room,
eight dancers dressed as swans.
I like the domesticity of addition —
add two cups of milk and stir —
the sense of plenty: six plums
on the ground, three more
falling from the tree.
And multiplication’ s school
of fish times fish,
whose silver bodies breed
beneath the shadow
of a boat.
Here we go gathering nuts in May,
Nuts in May, nuts in May,
Here we go gathering nuts in May,
On a cold and frosty morning.
Who will you have for nuts in May,
Nuts in May, nuts in May,
Who will you have for nuts in May,
On a cold and frosty morning.
We'll have [name] for nuts in May,
Nuts in May, nuts in May,
We'll have [name] for nuts in May,
On a cold and frosty morning.
