Lex Runciman
"It's as
Beckoning as Heaven"
—Richard Ford
We’d have our own lists—the deodar cedars
fog-frozen this morning: white, heavy green
near a mountain ash winter clear of leaves,
every contortion thorned with frost.
Seeing goes so unavailable some days
it won’t register regardless of what there is.
Anger does that, or grief, one of the intimations.
Or it might be achievement, ecstasy,
as in labor, as in a birth.
The sweetness of a good Satsuma
tells me December, the pleasures of detachment.
Then there’s global warming, malaria for dinner,
send money, spend more.
Pink and white carnations. Water in a glass.
And gravity, praise it, perseveres.
And the physics of planets and distance
brings breath and makes this—
I mean
this, this snow.
Copyright
© by Lex Runciman 2007. All rights reserved.
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