I Knew a Girl Who Told Me:
I can hear the percolating of storm
Into dirt. The splatter against windows.
Earth - like a small child - unable to fend off
Anything. And strife comes all morning:
Softening the ground, sinking
To the unaffected granite beneath. And
Acceptance grows, less like surrender than
Desperate justification: This will bring early flowers,
From this awful weather they will germinate.
They will launch out toward the world in flagrant
Colors and spear at the sky like fools
Stabbing at sun.
Above me the underbellies of straggling autumn
Geese glide in the pull of breeze.
It will be months before they get the warm urge
And the stones, long and flat, here by the pond
That they have rested on through summer
Will grow cold and dark with their absence.
And the fringe of sullied grass that disappears
Toward water, that hides tasty bits of lazy meals,
That waits for all things to occur, will face the season
With what flexibility it has.
And the pond water itself, bound to the earth
In holes and ruts, filling what might be called
Ugliness, feeding the sunbathers and scavengers,
Will turn itself to ice and watch what happens
As if from inside a heated car. And I, lying here
On my back, less in tune with my ageless heritage,
I am the variable- I do not know what they know
For sure- none of these flights apply, none of these
Signs are my harbingers - I may still come out
Here to the cold mud bank for weeks, like a widow
Waking to an empty bed.