I have no idea what I'm about to write--the magician hoping she remembered to stuff the rabbit in the hat before walking onstage. But there is a call for poetry, and poetry must happen when called.
I don't know if this is a poem. It is just brand new.
And this is like running down the hill
marked by rectangular bales in orange twine.
The one behind Grandpa's blue house,
that curves, your feet hopping between
the duel tire tracks leading to the apple
tree in your green coat and glad it's raining,
that you have a wind chime in hand,
that you will hang there for the summer
because it is beautiful. It is going to be
beautiful and you are going to LET it be
beautiful even when you aren't sure
where you are, who you are, if you are doing it
RIGHT, if it pleases him. How you are hanging
the sound of it, present when you couldn't be:
a prayer, a thank you for this field, this tree,
this storm, this secret summer
So crawl from the night window after pulling
the screen loose and run toward the sound
of the wind moving silence through the trees
at the end of the field, the silhouette of blood
vessels and branches against the storm behind,
the same one the heart beats against: love's fist
pounds the hidden, impossible opening
of the seed you forgot to place and nurture.
I did it for you. And if I am afraid
these awkward feet would trample the fruit,
isn't it better that they were here, meaning
no harm but to express some painful and suppressed
joy that matches the steps already placed there
by the rain and its electric epiphany?