The Middlewesterner

A bucket-dumping
wind and the green

Wood of the old barn wet with

the scent of spring.

Dripping
sky and still

the snow.

Silly robin looking for worms through snow -

what does she know that I don't?

"I do not like you
on my tail, Mister-
Man-with-a-Salt-

Shaker. Back off and
nobody gets hurt."

*

"Make your poems
of common stuff,"
he said.

"How rare is the air,
yet how we need it."

*

"If something
grabs you and
won't let go,

tell yourself
the story."

"Have you seen
the guy writing

poetry at
seventy m.p.h.?

That would be
me."

*

"The line
break is

leverage.
Use it."

*

"I have
what I need.

I'm doing
what I want.

So what do you
think you can

sell me?"

Water at the road's
edge. Spring has come
to Wisconsin.

March rain, as
if winter
has indeed

come undone.

Hawk in an empty tree
like a promise of spring.

Black dirt
nosing its way

through snow -
spring comes with

mud on its face.

Winter breaks,
the sun a lost
dog looking

for home.

"You scratch the surface
and think you find something.

That's not what we're looking for."

*

"If you would write,
find the silence within

and honor it."

*

"Some words are mine.
They come when I call them."

"You are poets,"
he said, "not salesmen.

Don't confuse your role."

*

"Move the poem,"
he said,

"from ooh to
ahh."

*

"If one is all I get,
one is what I take."

Winter thaws -
water at the edge

of snow,
light at the edge

of shadow.

Creek flows through
folds of snow,
enough you know

spring will come.

A greasy snow -
I could slide all

the way to hell.

Hoarfrost on the trees,
and the morning sun.

Corn stubble - whiskers
in the snowy fields, crows

mumbling some complaint.

"The way these poems
come, it must be like

milk letting down."

*

"Poetry is like
squashing squash or
spilling water -

you may initiate
the process, but

you can't control it."

*

"If it doesn't
make sense, say it

outloud
until it does."

"You can love your ignorance
or you can come to understanding -

you can't do both."

*

"It's like writing
in a trance," he said.

"You keep doing it -
something will come."

*

"How many of these
can you do?" they asked.

He said, "How many
of them can you undo?"

Hawk in the tree,
fluffed for winter,

as keen of eye
as the air is cold -

there's nothing
he doesn't see.

Winter morning.
Sky like the inside

of seashell.
Day like an

endless ocean.

Sunday morning.
Cold cast of sky,

as if the fire's
gone.

Lift of wind.
Night so cold

the sky has cracked.

Sunday morning in winter.
A sadness at my going,

yet joy for the journey.

"This poetry -
more OCD
than talent,

I'm afraid."

*

"Yes," he said, "you can
become a poet,

but why would you
want to?"

*

"How many
of them are there?

How much
water in the well?"

"How can you
say what we

know?

You're not from
around here."

*

"It's a good
poem, I know,

when I can't
read my writing,

but you can
only say that

looking back."

*

"Nothing tricks me into
conversation with myself

like these long drives."

Hard crunch
of snow -

every step
you know

you're going.

Early morning.
Bitter cold.

Our restlessness
and no place to go.

Snow and sorrow -
spring will take one

or the other.

We don't
want to
say it,

but - yes -
March is
mostly

winter.