Friday, January 21, 2011

The Drunkard's Garden

You could place but never name
the ache for the thing that wasn't
gone, but could be sometime soon.
Not summer exactly, more
the cusp between, when the spider
grows too large.  To ache is to push against
his thread so far but fail
to break it.  To pluck it 
might sound like a harp string.
Then to pull bac, duck under,
leaving it still intact, tight.
Between the time when the light,
because it's lost all its heat,
feels like some cruel joke, 
and the time when the whole day
was meant to just lay down 
in the sun-sticky grass and sleep it off.

I planted this because I don't want to see
one more ugly thing.  Because to stop 
now would be unnatural,
would mean a constant refusal.

Because even the winter onions,
every tiny pearl is a yes.

--Daneen Bergland

No comments:

Post a Comment