A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
When day begins with fog outlining
the shapes to come,
another good poet dead
and the prospect of a bad president,
in the rain I take nothing but my house keys
to walk over gravel up hill
past machines gathering the broken branches
of another year.
These are hard hills to climb
so I take them slowly as my breath
gathers strength from the leaves
spinning among sumac posts
and the corpses of cattails
gathered in the swamp.
Unsure of things,
the higher power shows me the path this day
through deep blue Norway spruce,
golden acres of forest
and my path again stays sure.
Copyright 2017 Carolyn Gregory