day comes near and bleeds on me.
all the trees, all the frogs
leave in little ships
labeled by the experts.
the flowers tremble but
still no wind on this punctured shore,
wheeling through someone else’s sky.
Archive for January 10, 1992
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I stopped after the rains
to listen to the silver frogs chanting,
who I could never find
when I wanted to watch them sing.
I could hear their beautiful piping
from my little room,
and I fell asleep to their chorus
in the light of the sun setting.
my father taught me how
to split wood,
carefully, with a sledgehammer
and wedges,
not fighting the grain,
but splitting good;
how to pry apart
the stubborn pines,
when you shouldn’t hit oak
hard and when you should.
my father has taught me
how to split wood
and I’ve never thanked him for it.
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