A living season

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B l a c k   t o   t h e   W a y

Mt. Auburn Cemetery

Boston, Massachusetts

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This isn’t the end. It simply
cannot be the end. It is a road.
You go ahead coatless, light-
soaked, more rutilant than
the road. The soles of your shoes
sparkle. You walk softly
as you move further inside
your subject. It is a living
season. The trees are anxious
to be included. The car with fins
beams through countless
oncoming points of rage and need.
The sloughed-off cells
under our bed form little hills
of dead matter. If the most sidereal
drink is pain, the most soothing
clock is music. A poetry
of shine could come of this.
It will be predominately
green. You will be allowed
to color in as much as you want
for green is good
for the teeth and eyes.

= C.D. Wright =

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Happy Wednesday

You who are a bird

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D a g n y   C l a r e   : :   W a l k i n g   t h e   W a l k

Holden Beach

Supply, North Carolina

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Please raise your hand,
whomever else of you
has been a child,
lost, in a market
or a mall, without
knowing it at first, following
a stranger, accidentally
thinking he is yours,
your family or parent, even
grabbing for his hands,
even calling the word
you said then for “Father,”
only to see the face
look strangely down, utterly
foreign, utterly not the one
who loves you, you
who are a bird suddenly
stunned by the glass partitions
of rooms.
….........................How far
the world you knew, & tall,
& filled, finally, with strangers.

= Aracelis Girmay =

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Happy Tuesday

Circling my heart

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G u l l   W a t c h i n g

Holden Beach

Supply, North Carolina

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All I can think about is how rare love is.
I don't mean it sadly, I just mean it.
The earth outside is so gorgeous
but too hot to step into. Florida, August.
I am circling my heart like a dog
ready to trap its prey. I keep
hearing these beautiful bird calls
& the sunlight through the window,
beautiful, & the trees through
the sunlight through the window,
beautiful too, but I am here inside.

= Ruth Bauman =

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Happy Monday

Our path emerges

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O v e r   a n d   A b o v e

Quaker Cemetery

Camden, South Carolina

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They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

= Ernest Dowson =

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Happy Friday

As in the case of cats

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I   H e a r d   T h a t

Sweetness the Tuxedo Cat

Columbia, South Carolina

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Surfaces serve
their own purposes,
strive to remain
constant (all lives
want that). There is
a skin, not just on
peaches but on oceans
(note the telltale
slough of foam on beaches).
Sometimes it’s loose,
as in the case
of cats: you feel how a
second life slides
under it. Sometimes it
fits. Take glass.
Sometimes it outlasts
its underside. Take reefs.

The private lives of surfaces
are innocent, not devious.
Take the one-dimensional
belief of enamel in itself,
the furious autonomy
of luster (crush a pearl --
it’s powder), the whole
curious seamlessness
of how we’re each surrounded
and what it doesn’t teach.

= Kay Ryan =

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Happy Wednesday