When you can't find the poem
you want, the one that travels
out to the frozen river
at dusk, and listens
for the first crack
of ice breaking
apart, revealing veins
of pewter and white
in the dark, that moment
when meaning opens, a current
under the rigid surface
loosening, beginning to pull
the world along
into the first days
of spring, into the question
that answers everything - seems
to answer everything -
when that poem
will not be found, you must
celebrate its small life
with another
-- Wendy McVicker
No comments:
Post a Comment