The Middlewesterner

Slap, slap, slap of
the windshield wipers,

the insistent rain,
the grey sky darkening,

wisdom that can't be shared.

Low crow
in a low sky.

We are all
looking for home.

A wet morning
and drag-tail crows

working the sky.

Leaving my friend
on a grey morning -

fog in my beard.

Sky

like a
dripping

swimmer
done with

her laps
today.

“Everything
in the quiet

moment.

Nothing
in the rush.”

*

“He
is not me, as

I
am not you, though

you
may be he.”

*

“If you wait
for the translation,

you've missed
what I'm saying.”

“Sometimes a word or phrase,”
he said,

“and sometimes the whole
enchilada.”

*

“If you put
somebody out,”
he said, “you

can stay in,
even if
somebody

put you out.”

*

“If you're about done writing
and your pen falls to the floor,

pick it up, write some more.”

If he be
crow, what

am I but
crow's shadow?

This crow
heads east
carrying

rude o-
pinions
of his

own.

Ha! Cold crow
flies its wet
blackness in-

to night sky.

Wet crow
in hard rain

turns its head
as if he's

had enough
of rude o-

pinions.

“See awe.
Say ah!

Seesaw
between.”

*

“Silence is the paint.
The notes are what we

see of the canvas.”

*

“A short poem,” he said,
“is the quiet poet's

Iliad, without
the fuss.”

“Pretend
the sun

makes meaning.
Then what

do you know?”

*

“Making poems?
Like this,” he said,

putting his
mark on paper.

*

“There are no great
revelations,”
he said, “only

little secrets,
day in, day out.”

Red buds
of the
silver
maple,

hints of
things to
come.

Spring. Dust devils
dance up the street.

All our flowers
dance in place.

The wind, the wind
is muttering.

Blast of morning's
broken light on
hard wind. Trees

holding their hunger
skyward, like
penitents.

Something has
turned, though I
don't know what,

nor how much.
We fall back
to sadness.

Red-tail morning.
The sky high and
blue, the green

of spring, coming.

First flower
of spring -

the face
of God.

“Yes, sitting there
wondering if

words will ever
come again -

the weight
of waiting.”

*

“If it were as
easy as turn

left there, turn
right here, we'd

all be poets.”

*

“If you
had any

more poems,
we'd both

be rich.”

“Roll some vowels
about your mouth,”

he said,
“just for practice.”

*

“It's just you
and the words,”
he said.

“What are you
afraid of?”

*

“Lead us not
into temptation?”
he said.

“I don't think so.
I like sinning

and being sinned on.”

Dome
of grey,

shell
game of

sorrow.

Grey fray
of the spring

day. No sun
and no

promise
of one.

High water
on the river
and beyond.

The glass which
would be spring,
half full.

The wind comes undone.
You smell the damp earth.
We've had enough of winter.

Ice gone out
and geese

on the water.
In the distance,

spring.

“How far can you go,”
he challenged them,

“one page at a time?”

*

“Small, only
two or three
of them, and

already
it's crowded.”

*

“This is poetry,
people,” he said.

“Don't think of it
as you would the world.”

“You may do it,”
he said, “and never

understand
what you've done.

That's the fun.”

*

“I don't know,”
he said. “I just

do the best
I can and

sometimes I'm
astonished.”

*

“Pound the words.
Pound at them.

Do not let down.
Do not relent.

Poetry
in the making!

Ring the anvil!
Sing!”

A thousand
loose miles
ahead of me.

Behind, a wind
that's pushing.

This tree,
my friend

I call
Henry

David.
That table,

Ralph
Waldo.