THIS POEM

 

is a clothesline hanging

between two trees;

the words, hung by wooden

pegs, move with the wind.

Between the lines, punctuations

of iris, peonies, bleeding hearts,

and a meadow that stretches

as far as the pines.  It has been raining

all night.  Someone I once loved

appears in the margins; I no longer

remember his name.  The wind roams

through the trees, and two crows

resume their argument, not caring

anymore who’s wrong, who’s right,

make inky tracks across the page.

The fog of memory blurs the text,

words running wild in the field.

I hear horns blowing, as the boat

comes into the harbor, my grandmother,

a small girl, looking over the rail

as the new world rises before her.

I smell steam rising from ironed cotton

as my mother slicks down the sheets.

The blank pages flap in the breeze.

What else can this poem contain,

except the world, and everything in it?

 

 

 

 

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