Series: Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2014-15

How could I open myself
to the string that vibrates
in the wind, and stay unperturbed
by the clamor of crows
whose cries summon the cold
and the curtain of dark
for wild drifts of snow?
Tonight, ice covers the roads
and burdens the roofs of houses
in our towns and I want to look
for any trace of tenderness: a curl
escaping from a chimney, the soapy
exhaust from a laundromat’s vents,
the small wet circles with dots
for eyes and a dash for a mouth,
drawn by a child’s gloved hand
in the back of a car slowed by traffic
on the interstate.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

always comes later— always lies
beneath detritus or the skin of matter;
dead leaves, the fecal, the stuff composted
and left behind when the sweet new rice
or corn was gathered beneath the moon.
Those first white pearls, those little
milky teeth that brown backs bent
to husk and skim: in burlap sacks,
only their shadows trickle down to fill
the mouths that truly hunger.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

How do you do it? I want to know how you put them all through, how you worked through the fevers and chills, the scratched knees and spills, how you found any time to sleep or brush your teeth or sprint to the store or pay bills or make sure everyone got their due. How do you do it? I want to know what you did when lack was the only thing that came through, when the promise of finishing turned into a vapor of dreams. How did you do it? How did you cross over from deep in the valley and across that forbidding range whose sides are sheer and whose crests are covered with ice and snow— How did you do it? I want to know what you did when you couldn’t stop what was coming, when bridges vanished and signposts pointed only to rain and more rain. I want to know how to breathe when fog shields the road, how to get to that spot in the middle of the park where the bench or the swing looks over the water and the buds spill like moons on the stones.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

“My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle and come to their end without hope.” ~ Job 7:6

Today as we lingered in the commons, a lady crossed the hall and came to sit and chat. Thank you for your family’s help with the charity dinner, she said; every little bit goes such a long way. The orphanage now has a clinic, and the school is doing well. There are more teachers, there are plans for a plumbing system though it will take a year or two. We are going to visit this spring, and again before the end of year. Only when we come face to face with the poor do we see ourselves for what we really are. She said she too was raised in an orphanage. You would not know from her careful speech, her aristocratic bearing. And then she took up both our hands in hers and kissed us on each cheek. I caught the faintest smell, like marigolds. Before she disappeared into the rectory she adjusted the flowers in the vase by the double doors, pinching off the droopy heads and bearing them away.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Sparse snow that falls and falling,
leaves on my dark sleeves the lightest imprint
of stars— how long would I need to stand

in its fickle weave to make
a white scarf wide enough
to cover my head, this grief?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

All through the night: wind
gusts that rattled.

Agitation of limbs, leaves
that hinged and sifted.

Deck furniture that banged
against brine-soaked wood.

I could not sleep so I made myself
a sandwich, I heated water for a cup

of tea. With every knock
on the eaves I listened,

wondered at the strength holding
mitered corners. A window

banged; and up the street,
a gate blustered open. But I knew

it was really the clamor
in my heart for which I listened.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Who owns the high-pitched whistle of waxwings
and the feathered cheques they serve to the air?

Who owns the sheets that ice the roads
to bring to a halt the commerce in towns?

Who owns the traps set in the wood
that snap at the sudden weight of snow?

And who owns the hands that labor all day
before they touch the pillow or the pen?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

What to do on a day of snow with more on the way? I read and marked my papers, washed all the laundry that could be washed then put a pot to simmer on the stove; I gave the jasmine in the window bay its drink of water, turned all drawers inside out to clean and straighten, and closets too— And the floor was cold but I wanted to feel the grain of the wood smooth against my insteps. Outside, light wove its feeble nets and raised them higher above the trees. It was so quiet, and the glint of ice so bright and milky, pearling on the backs of deck chairs like crowns of baby teeth. I folded blankets and sorted scarves threaded with linen floss, lavish with vines and buds; and found cunning hoops of brass still in their folds of thinnest tissue. I held up what I’d kept or hoarded then found anew— I knew what I’d paid for, why I’d wanted the touch, the shimmer or shape of whatever it was that charmed and broke apart from its backdrop in that store window— A gift I’d bring to you in perfect time; its meaning, that I have not forsaken.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Weeks of rain or snow or any long stretch of bad weather
make, of course, for cabin fever. And cabin fever breeds
all kinds of nostalgia, because most likely the warmth
we seek cannot be completely delivered by the down-
filled comforter or the lotion-lined boucle socks
bought at the drugstore post-Christmas sale. To fill
the canyon-like longing in the gut is a marathon endeavor,
requiring several box sets of movies and a matching hunger.
Not only do we want to eat everything in sight, but first
fry it in fat, then toss in some salt and sugar. We’ll want
bowls of starch: rice, mashed potato, mac and cheese, pierogis,
Shanghai style dumplings, hot dan-dan noodles, chili cheese fries
till snot runs down our faces. Then we’ll feel gross and fat
and rueful, anxious for the first sign of clearing skies,
for icicles to break off the eaves and stab with vigor
into the tofu-like wasteland that used to be a yard.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.