An expectancy of chairs.
The alpha poet.
Middle of March. A giggle, a gaggle, a clutch, a quill, a sonnet, a rainbow off poets gather to listen and learn and write. One afternoon we go walking, a solitary exercise this, a search for objects and images and the stories they will inevitably invoke as they make their way into our poems.
Beside the road a benevolent elephant,
burl-encrusted, beaming, invites me in
and I lean to its pocked and marvelous mantle,
close my eyes and there’s my boy.
Poet in the trees.
Above my head, a cradle-cat of branches
my boy would climb if he was here.
Poet on the road.
Geese squinch-squelch on spring-sodden ground,
fither-feather water in a synchronized float.
Poet in repose.
Stick-stalks surge from last year’s sedum,
pine cones pearl in a tree-root cave.
Poet laughing.
Green feather lichen, merry weather mornings,
garden-hugger buddha in his gray spring coat,
my boy’s a lover, my boy’s a rover
Wait long enough and the alder turns green.
The feeding and watering of poets.
Read and listen, read and listen, read and listen.
And write.
And write.
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