A blooming linden
scents my nightly walk homeward --
a quiet pleasure.
(Oberlin, OH; June 29, 2005)
Everyone's inside in this April shower
but me, in a loge in the cathedral square,
where the rain veils door and tower and stair,
and goes pat-a-pat, pat-a-pat on the cobbles.
An umbrella bobs around the corner
and --- brown-skirted, tall, and plain ---
my love peers at me through the rain,
and smiles hesitantly --- is she welcome?
She slides onto my lap at my answering smile
and lifts her feet from the rain-runneled tile.
She kisses me, and in my ear,
she murmurs, "'Allo, 'allo, my dear."
I recline on a hilltop one bright summer's day
next to my love, brown and tall,
who gazes down on roof and wall
of a city of brick not far away.
The smell of cyprus, sharp and broad,
the line of her body, the fall of her hair ---
and faintly I catch its scent on the air:
less pungent than cyprus, but sweeter than grass.
I touch it --- and she does not turn ---
but in the way her shoulders lie,
I clearly see her crinkling eye,
and calm, indulgent smile.
Through the doors I can see the sky --
I'll abandon my work and go outside
to autumn's color up the mountainside
and the terraced garden down below.
On the porch I watch my love
laughing at each pull and shove
in mock battle with the dog
over an old and well chewed log.
The dog gains the stick, proud of his win.
My love gives me a sidelong glance and grin:
Silly, why so long within
On this lovely day? Come play!
The mountainside is white with snow,
The limbs of oak trees grey and stark.
The black and silver clouds loom low
and wipe the scene of shape and mark.
As I lie on the couch and gaze into the flames
I can hear the north wind as it beats at the door.
From the kitchen comes rustling, a creak of the floor,
then a clinking beside me, a touch on my arm.
My love, in brown, appears beside me,
And cuddling close, proffers some tea.
She cradles her own and peers through the steam,
and secretly smiles, lost in a dream.
(Independence, VA; Summer 2005)
The rain is a curtain,
the lightning flashes above,
the people cower
in shop awnings and subways.
This is New York in the rain.
On sixty first street
a cop is parked and reading
while the rain runs down
all the windows of his car
all the buildings on the street.
On the 1 downtown
I faced a girl hardly mussed:
her shoes, a bit damp;
her hair, a few strands displaced;
her mood, reflecting the rain.
Once again at home
I watch the East River bridge
below my window
vanishing in a distance
of thick, silver rain and mist.
(New York City; August 10, 2006)
Shitting in the Woods
To shit in the woods could be hell I suppose.
Impaction, diarrhea, are terrible woes.
And if some right moron mistakes poison ivy --
Oh, how little pleasure that moron now knows!
Eat well, and take your plastic shovel,
Your toilet paper, but leave your troubles...
The golden air at sunset spills upon the ridge
and slowly drowns the in molten light the valley spread below.
Here I sit, upon my hole.
The treetops' summer foliage is tossed upon the breeze
and dapples all the ferns below into a sea of green.
Here I crouch, by a log.
Sublimity and silence! Solitude and bliss!
When I return once more to town, it's surely this I'll miss.
(New York City; Summer 2006)