Three Poems

Silent, You Get Out of the Car and Go Inside

We’re all so caught up, I know, but isn’t that a hawk flying over the pines? Oh, and there’s that doe and her fawn crossing the wheat field to have a drink from our pond. And, in our yard just now, did I see a brown moth flutter out from beneath a falling maple leaf?

God knows, we both are so ingrained in living our lives, we never bother to notice what’s happening around us: the gliding hawk, the thirsty doe and her fragile fawn, a dog barking coming out from a nearby barn, the skittish moth the instant before the leaf settles beneath the tree. 

You are right to expect a response from me, but did you hear that hawk calling out as it floats in the currents above the Loblolly pines, see the doe’s head shoot up, hear the charging dog, or catch sight of the moth seeking a new refuge in the tree? We live in the presence of a world unfolding.

The doe and her fawn now run for the woods—my god, the fawn, bobbing her head just above the swaying wheat, must have stumbled. The doe is turning and drops below the wall of grain, and the three of them, the doe, the fawn, and the dog closing in, feels like a lifetime for everyone to see–

but only a second to play out as the doe and her fawn reappear and, in successive leaps, disappear into the pine. The dog pulls up at the edge of the field, while the moth has gone back into the maple, and the hawk’s now lost in the blue-cast horizon—wouldn’t it be nice if it came around again.

Standing in the driveway where we pulled in, I know you want a response from me. Had you watched leaving the car, perhaps we would have hugged after this moment—perhaps I would have apologized for being so insensitive.

Opening the back door, I call out for you as I go inside. 

****

The Exact Moment When Mom Decides

Darkened clouds boil side-by-side across a burnt sky,
rumbling with the press of a thunder that won’t subside
as gray sheets dive onto our side of the darkened hills,
devouring in a downside sweep, our woods and fields.

Tingling with lightning heat, we slam windows inside 
and stand at the bay watching our dad and Jake outside 
struggle to tie down the flapping tarp beside the shed-
while Whitney presides over Dad’s skittish thoroughbred.

Dad yells out to the hillside, the cows come down to stall.
They gather by him at the side of the trough and bawl.
Wrestling with metal sheeting, Dad herds the pigs inside.
It proves no match, collapses in a pounding broadside.

Now Dad’s just inside the barn, waves his cap to us all.
Mom laughs, shakes her head and says, That man’s suicidal.

****

Through the Forest, A Pantoum

I’ve walked this trail many times,
as much as I know what lies ahead,
I linger on what’s been left behind -
despite the way I lived or what I said.
 
As much as I know what lies ahead,
it is the one trail that never ends.
Despite the way I lived or what I said,
I still seek to see around the bend.
 
It’s the one trail that never ends
among the trees and along the creek.
I still seek to see around the bend
on hilltops beyond the day’s reach.
 
Among the trees and along the creek
the walk is quiet and serene. The pine
on hilltops beyond the day’s reach,
looks fresh in a splash of sunshine.
 
The walk is quiet and serene: the pine,
red maple, white oak, and sweet gum
looks fresh in a splash of sunshine,
highlights an autumn path yet to come.  
 
Red maple, white oak, and sweet gum -
the crunch of leaves on loblolly needles -
highlights an autumn path yet to come 
and tracks, looking back, past the cedars.
 
The crunch of leaves on loblolly needles,
the forest hike has announced my way,
and tracks, looking back, past the cedars
won’t fade until the rain washes all away.
 
The forest hike has announced my way,
the acts I’ve done, the words I’ve said
won’t fade until the rain washes all away -
the ones I’ve loved, those now dead.
 
The acts I’ve done, the words I’ve said,
I’ve walked this path many times.
The ones I’ve loved, those now dead,
I linger on what’s been left behind.

****