It has been so wet stones glaze in moss;
everything blooms coldly.
I expect you. I thought one night it was you
at the base of the drive, you at the foot of the stairs,
you in a shiver of light, but each time
leaves in wind revealed themselves,
the retreating shadow of a fox, daybreak.
We expect you, cat and I, bluebirds and I, the stove.
In May we dreamed of wreaths burning on bonfires
over which young men and women leapt.
June efforts quietly.
I’ve planted vegetables along each garden wall
so even if spring continues to disappoint
we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain.
I have new gloves and a new hoe.
I practice eulogies. He was a hawk
with white feathered legs. She had the quiet ribs
of a salamander crossing the old pony post road.
Yours is the name the leaves chatter
at the edge of the unrabbited woods.
© Lisa Olstein
READ MORE POEMS BY THIS POET:
- Another Story with a Burning Barn in It
- That Magnificent Part the Chorus Does about Tragedy
- [White Spring]
- Radio Crackling, Radio Gone
- Air Rights
- In the Meantime
- Your Country Needs You
- Where the Use of Cannon Is Impractical
- What We’re Trying to Do is Create a Community of Dreamers
- The Hypnotist’s Daughter