Waiting for Wings

Seeing this
how could he not feel
he was meant to fly,
the clouds beneath him,
the mountains laid out
before him like stepping stones.

Surely, he thinks, his arms,
as well, could cup the air
beneath them, translate
thermals to lift, glide
across almost visible currents,
like floating on water,
spreading your weight
across a thin surface of ice.

The only sound is the fluttering
percussion of wings
fingering the sky, searching
for edges, the out and back
of his own breath stretched
taut between two fields
of air rising beneath him.

Here there is only the waiting
that has been here ten million years
or longer.  He opens his arms
to it.  He opens his hands,
mouth, eyes.  He takes in
all that he can as one thing
and stands upright, leaning
as far as mortality allows,
whispering the silent prayer of waiting.

The Persistence of Field

after Carl Moser’s photograph “Raking Hay”

This field goes on in time,
wrapping around mountain, years, generations.

What are two men against a mountain,
to plow it, sow it, lay it straight,
maintain fenceline and productivity?

He has worn this hat every summer
for thirty years, flattening fields
he claims as his own,
but even as he fights the horses
to keep them in line, knock down
a season’s worth of weeds,
even as he grips the reins
and guides the blade,
he can’t help but notice
white breath of queen-anne’s lace,
orange fire of asclepias tuberosa.

Why I Would Not Name You Story

Because the best ones end badly,
because the heroes are always flawed,
sometimes tragically, because settings
are never quite right, too surreal
or ideal, because I want to keep
antagonists away as long as possible,
because the critics can be too harsh
and the jokes too predictable,
funny story, ghost story, short story,
tall tale, hey, story, what’s your moral,
what are you plotting now,
have you ever had a climax,
because I can’t imagine your life
will have a denouement and shouldn’t
be mere exposition, because I hope
the pattern will be your own
and something more than fiction.