String
Let my history then
be a gate unfastened
to a new life
and not a barrier
to my becoming.
David Whyte
“Yorkshire”
I’m waiting for the wind to die
and not so much
as that as waiting
for the temperature to rise
for what they say will make
freezing bearable.
Unprepared,
I left my boots out in the cold
on the porch when I came in
from the storm
yesterday and while
they’re dry
they’re stiff as a boy
on his first ice fishing trip
and I think this
is the reason for the string
through the shoulders
of the coat and down
the arm that stops,
abrupt at the cuff: who,
standing over the new
augured hole in the ice God
knows how many miles
from home
wants to watch
one mitten fall into the black
round face of a wet full moon?
Who wouldn’t pull
their hand
into what’s left of the sleeve
and swear and stare and want
to abandon all the hope and gear
and grope toe over toe
the hell out of there and pray
to stay upright through
the snow: foot to foot to foot
not traipse but walk straight
to cold to light a smoke
while watching the sun glow
and grow short and shorter still
on the road. I’d’ve given the mitten
another thought or two. I’d’ve
even cursed it. But shit,
what I wouldn’t give
for one string and two mittens
to get me through a day
maybe a small mouth bass
coming up to the hook
to touch her lip to the shiny
light in the dark, blood cold bu
enough warm
under all this ceaseless blowing
wind and sheer thumb
dropping cold.
No comments:
Post a Comment