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Saturday, November 30, 2013

First Things




we call him
Morning Report, and he is  
frailer than I remember,
  
he taps
the open gourds
with his cane
tells me

where the elk went,
how many golf balls
he held, quail
how many
and how young, do I

recall the wildfire
that peaked the ridge
and the goats
imported to clear
the underbrush—was it
willow? did I know

a tree can still burn
underground
creating a bowl
of embers, like
a heat puddle
capable of cooking
a javelina, step
carefully—even days
after the smoke clears

but the roses
did so well
that summer, 
the ashes
do it

daybreak’s
watchman walks  
with phonetic
patience
past the Pioneer
Cemetery

eyes the stones
like a bachelor
pondering
his dance card,
building
tomorrow’s
report should he be
blessed 
with one more
morning






















Walking in Gratitude, Poets United

3 comments:

  1. Loved the cadence of this piece and the subject matter. What a character you painted with words.

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  2. The last stanza sums up so well the gratitude, the watchfulness, and the observation when one is conscious of the certainty of the end of life. Morning report, indeed. Loved this poem.

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  3. I love poetry for what it elicits in the mind of the reader
    I felt cold, I heard tapping, I sensed roses with an ash attached
    wow

    ReplyDelete