A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
These are clouds and those are stars, while over there, the headlights of cars. Up from the east ridge the full moon’s rise reflected on the west in a whitetail’s eyes. Those are shadows and in the distance rain to drive down the dust till the dust comes again. Far off lightning, and momentarily thunder, over there for a while but soon hereunder. Notice how the breeze is becoming a wind that winds up nothing, having merely been. But more dark arrives as the power goes down, and all lights vanish from here to town, and the fridge where your food is quits its hum, the music strangles, the radio’s dumb. You stretch and yawn, give your ears a flap then sigh and circle back down on my lap. O pup, may you never be lost or bark at birds, may you see only kindness from hands or in words. And now here it comes, the end of a poem, where we are your humans and this is your home.
Copyright 2021 Robert Wrigley
Robert Wrigley‘s books include Box (Penguin, 2017). He lives in Idaho.