Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

Later we sit, warmed by our red-bark tea,
and ask ourselves, “Was the owl hurt?
Was it protecting a nest? Why did it choose
to spread its wings and execute
that clumsy and alarming dance,
when it could have flown and vanished?”
I, too, dropped out of the sky to visit.
I do not know why I came.
My hosts are not just farmers
but college folks,
the house has more books by far
than pitchforks or rakes.
Ben talks about his research
and the damn fools
who refuse to understand him;
I talk about my poetry
and the damn-fool publishers who won’t —
you know the rest.
After dinner,
I spread my wings and dance
the halting dance of my poems.
(Later I’ll get a letter from him
suggesting I do something more practical
with the brain the gods gave me — ha!)
But for now,
night-bird and poet,
twine this rainy reunion
with our inexplicable presence,
knotting the thread of time
with an omen and a blessing.
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