Thursday, August 6, 2009

A Poem

Odd Hours
c2009 Bruce L. Greene

Odd Hours

The mind’s passion is all for singing out. Obscurity has another tale to tell.
-Adrienne Rich

They emerge at odd hours.
Always crouched like wilting string beans, or oversized soap bubbles; well over prime, instantly vulnerable,
In remote corners of their PROPERTY
they’ll weed awhile,
Jerking the veins of unwanted intruders from their domestic carpet-dream;
It’s what they have,
what they control,
what they do.

When careers have yielded to succulents,
they appear on weekdays,
with mid-morning saws, leaf blowing,
edge and hedge trimming,
fumes for the elms,
oscillating decibels for infants,
vibrations for ant colonies.

Eleanor tempts the last light with an impromptu tour of her lawn;
She hears crows descending
and wonders about their youth,
Never seen any nests,
never seen baby crows,
they just appear fully grown;
Their numbers have increased,
would that Hitchcock could see the tree behind the alley.


I could never make that sudden appearance;
Mine was never a life of home-owning
I care less for lawns than lives.
Slightly more for ideas than irises;

When my road becomes a U-turn,
I see my father in their eyes,
I attempt, again, to find the contentment in raking leaves,
capturing them all before another falls,
and another,
still another,
always another.

1 comment:

Cameron McPherson Smith said...

beautiful, bruce.

poetry really is the end-all of writing.

looking forward to hearing this in person.