A short worry list— That snow might not fall this winter, or the next, and the next after that. Might never again remind us of things like spiderwebs and ivory lace. That rivers boil without cease. That the fig tree and the persimmon might be so overcome, they'll forget how to sew anything again except patched brown garments thinner than cheap fashion made by women with vacant eyes in sweatshops. That pine forests become only the verb in their names. But imagine, insist the ghosts of lost or departed things— Picture the form of someone who goes to bed with you, spreads your hair like a beautiful fan on the pillow or brings you dreams of cool melons arranged on a blue plate. From which window could you find again a pearled flicker of wings at dawn, above water? Imagine the press of a soft wax seal on your lids, embossed with tiny vines and fleurs-des-lis; the anticipated delight of lifting the flap of an envelope perhaps enclosing a love letter. Which is to say— when they speak of things like hope, they mean something opens, or opens again.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.