He knew poetry was a problem once he couldn’t pass the plums in the produce section without mouthing: “sweet” and “cold;” when every time he heard: “they taste good,” he would add: “to her.”
He hoped it would be better in Connecticut, but winter came. Soon he shielded his eyes from sun-glinting snow-crusted pines, blocked the bare wind from his ears.
He moved to New Hampshire the next year, after apple picking, after the frost, after the fall. The air was raw, the rough earth frozen, the dark deep lovely woods asleep.
He longs to sleep as well.
But first: unmend the walls, scatter the stones, let skitter mountainsides then amend the poems: break lines, rend words and make an end of metaphor: let the old man lie.
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I love this one. Perhaps it's because I grew up in ye olde granite state, but this one really resonated with me. Beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThank you for an old man reference. It warms the heart.
ReplyDeletebam! pow! right in the cockles.
ReplyDelete(sorry, the ghost of ralph kramer came over me)