Monday (Spring Rains) Musings

Two poems that came into my in box this weekend. Good times.

Yellow Bowl

If light pours like water
into the kitchen where I sway
with my tired children,

if the rug beneath us
is woven with tough flowers,
and the yellow bowl on the table

rests with the sweet heft
of fruit, the sun-warmed plums,
if my body curves over the babies,

and if I am singing,
then loneliness has lost its shape,
and this quiet is only quiet.

Rachel Contreni Flynn

Long After Hopkins

Nothing at dusk, lord, but dust

and road to keep it. The field kneels

under white pines, umbra the edge

to whom this is addressed :

a mind part fern, part birch :

two turkeys slowly S-ing their necks

through inflorescence, arrangement

more precise than what light leaves

fields : painterly flowers more color

than picture, more words for color

than tint : alizarin or violet, you could

write goldenrod, write cornflower,

but Queen Anne’s lace still hems

the low horizon. Faith, what is it

abides, what’s left of pastoral

but unreality. Ask artifice. Ask ornament.

Go ahead and ask : what principle

animates the natural : owl pink Lady’s Slipper

orchid white-tailed deer woodchuck :

is it only what’s visible that’s knowable.

Twenty dandelions gone to seed;

tent worms slung in the articulated

tree; what’s tiresome : mind

unanswered, writing to supply

scaffolds to hold up scenery, nothing

but queries and plywood, string

strung to a high struck bell auguring :

it’s too late to see a third turkey

left headless, wreck of feathers

the owl scared, scattered in grass—
Brian Teare
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