i
In this dark moment, the East coast rolls
against old sheets, yawns and stretches
out of a million dreams at once, leaving
them to hang like ripe peaches for another
savoring—a great tree bent, limbs strained
with the weight of all that wishing. Yet
how many can be saved? The landscape
changes in a day with drought and hurricanes,
with once good men disguised in Washington
and we can’t seem to find our way back
to the orchard, to the tree before the fruit
falls and bruises, swarmed by feeding
gnats and yellow jackets as it decomposes.
If we could drive a stake, blaze a tree trunk,
leave bread crumbs and pray the pigeons
won’t consume our trail, the world
would be a better place—regularly revisiting
our secret fishing holes in peace.
ii
When I was young I loved to hunt,
outthink the wild, read sign and project
trail’s end. I craved skirmishes with greedy
men, rebelled against almost anything
dishonest or unfair. But I am too old
for trouble now, weary of a game
to win, of chance or luck, of reaching
beyond mundane routines that offer
fleeting satisfaction, like a poem
tossed to the wind, like a mowed lawn,
mended fence or a freshly weeded garden
in the gloaming waiting for the dawn.
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