A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
My grandfather was a storyteller who died
when I was young. He would take me
for walks among the evening trees and know
they were alive, pulsing with the life
that was his story. I run my hands
against the rough bark of an aged oak,
railroad spikes marking its trunk, and feel
my grandfather, his stories of lost children
stolen in the woods, when no one was there
but the wind and a thousand blinking eyes.
Copyright 2013 James Tolan. From The Autumn House Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, 3rd ed. Reprinted with permission of Autumn House Press.