[Another beautiful lyric poem from B.N. - enjoy!]
Consider, how consistently the light gets less
in the rim of the window, then the room,
the way we grow quiet each night at 8 o'clock.
It has been a winter of arguments, broken clocks
and black-outs. We aptly call these silence and darkness.
Given enough time I can make sense of anything,
our tracks in the snow, the snow filling the forgotten
boots next to the back stairs, the clay pots
on the sill, the TV and our heads
in R.E.M. sleep.
I know that the geese, afraid to be overcome by snow travel
In a constant V and sound a hard call back and forth, knowing
both their shape and sound as imperative.
Sense has a pattern like snow and sleep
or silence and darkness.
And here we are the power concealed in it.
© to the author 1983-2010