Margaret Gibson
For today, I will memorize
the two trees now in end-of-summer light
and the drifts of wood asters as the yard slopes away toward
the black pond, blue
dragonflies
in the clouds that shine and float there, as if risen
from the bottom, unbidden. Now, just over the fern--
quick--a glimpse of it,
the plume, a fox-tail's copper, as the dog runs in ovals and eights,
chasing scent.
The yard is a waiting room. I have my chair. You, yours.
The hawk has its branch in the pine.
White petals ripple in the quiet light.
I'm sitting here at our table overlooking the lake with NPR's classical music hour on the radio (gosh, I sound like a tool). It's a gray day and I haven't seen or heard another human soul. The trees are beginning to develop a yellow tinge and the Great Blue Heron just emerged from the brush next to our house and flew across the lake. Peaceful. Solitude.
Moments ago, Garrison Keillor read this poem as part of The Writer's Almanac broadcast. I can't help but to connect it to September 11th. It seems as though the narrator is reflecting, especially given the mention of the two trees in the light--perhaps a vague reference to the towers? I don't know for sure and that's okay, as the poem is just lovely. Again, another poem describing this singular moment with such beautifully-worded snippets from the scene. For the first time in a long time, this one makes me to want to go back to my own poetry writing. But for now, I've got to write something far less glamorous...a grant proposal. Have a great day.
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