The Middlewesterner

Some places
nothing but wind,

and dust
to give it color.

Some places
just the wind.

Miles before me,
into the drowsy grey.

Horses
on the hillside -

makings
of a story.

“You worry
your words
so much

they turn
and flee.
Then you

complain
of writer's
block.”

*

“If carpenters
fussed as much
as poets,

we'd all fall
through the floor.”

*

“Some-
times you don't

know
how the lines

will
break until

you're
done and some-

times
you never

know.”

“You keep talking,”
the poet said,

“but all you do
is repeat yourself.

If you have nothing
more to say,

shut up.”

*

“What does it
cost me, this

slowing down
to see the world?

What do I gain
by losing?”

*

“How to write?”
The poet said,

“You practice
every day

and you wait.”

You do the math -
how many gods

for this much world?

By what
nick of luck

am I not
that magpie?

Going into the storm -
Not choosing is a choice.

Veer of snow
in wind like

daylight in
the mountains.

Trees stir the sky -
the snow flies.

“My sass,”
he said

“is a sauce
made of words.”

*

“Why keep my
crippled work?

I can't let go
the half-formed

notion.”

*

“All of us going nowhere
at a high rate of speed.”

“Roll
of the tongue,
the words -

Why
does a fellow
want to?

What
is it
he needs?”

*

“If you want to
write,” he said,

“listen. Listen
for the voices.”

*

“The man with words -
Is there nothing

he cannot say?”

The very
whiteness
of snow in

the air
darkens
the sun.

Slurry of
wind and snow -

how far from
home is

too far?

Farmsteads in the veil of snow -
a city lost in mist.

Slow-going snow.
The wind pushes back.

Wind and
wonder -

snow drifts
block the road.

“Yes,

silence
for wisdom

requires

wisdom
for silence.”

*

“Turn words
and find more.

Turn the world,
find everything.”

*

“If the poem
has bones,

form is mere
formality.”

“Why poetry?
Because

the frog jumps.

Why short
poems?

Because
he does not

jump far.”

*

“Words?
I have

plenty.
Let me

waste some.
Let me

waste some
more. How

about you?
Waste some

too?”

*

“The poem -
such a

conversation
we'd have,

if we could.”

A wall of snow,
like silence.

Cold blue spill of sky.
The wise crow does not fly.

Light on the lay of snow.
The day goes where the days go.

Another day,
clear and bright -

blue jewels
of snow,

the fire
of light.

Late afternoon
sun spills its cream
on the melting

snow, which is still
deep. It's March, yet
spring seems far off.

“Where did it go?”
they asked.

“Where did what go?”
he said.

“Now you see it,
now you don't.”

*

“Lies, a fragile
tissue,” he said,

“and truth not
much more sturdy.”

*

“Pay attention,”
he said. “One

moment can
undo you.”

“You mean you just
sit there waiting
for words,” they said.

“Yes,” he said.
“There's poetry
in waiting.”

*

“It is the rush
to expression,”
he said,

“which spoils it.”

*

“Yeah,” he said, “this is
being a poet.

I can
do it all day.”

So the sun
says howdy
to the gloom -

this
moment of

light.

Again
the somber end

of grey day.

The hawk is
sitting low.

Today is about
small things.

Even the crow
knows nothing

except that hope
is a kind of

uselessness.

Four crows
putting their heads
together -

still nothing.

How is it
I go, yet

the road stays?