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Past Perfect A new fall brings new grief- sloughed off in mounds of softened leaves. The wind lifts the trees wistfully, Not rough, but melancholy. Fall's complexion, Pained gray and brown, Pinched and hidden In a puckered light. This morning's walk Swept us past geese and fishermen With their distinctive shapes, Their strange migratory seasons. Such innocent self-love, The mist and Matthew's young caress. What membrane did we pass through, What clotted spot in time, Cramped and cramping In our small town womb, Our middle America Beige and blond, Bland as any happiness before its fall. And now, hours later, How did we get here? Looking back past the softened hide Of the day, The day that opened silver And closed clotted, The geese rising, Calling to one another in their northern hollow voices, banking in unison, pointing like arrows toward the horizon. Nora Croll This poem, along with her poems 'The House', 'No One Writes About Marraige', and '9/11/2001' appear in the Poetry Journal PGI #5 |
