The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things
The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
I think of Fats Waller whose left hand leaped down the keys, showing the path for every jazz pianist who followed, including the great Art Tatum and the minor Billy Joel.
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,
Like a pistil after the petals go.
in August, she can walk
away from her fury
of pines, and catch
That time’s lost now, when a stone could hurt,
when a feather missed its wing,
when sky kissed clouds and grass kissed dirt
and nothing thought itself just a thing.
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well…
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length…
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.