poem for the not silent night

Standing at the edge

of the field of queen anne's lace

I know I belong there

sycophants notwithstanding 

I see over you 

“I  am looking through you”  he said airily

I turned and walked away 

back to my own field 

where he does not exist

did you think I would be silent as I was marginalized?

I have given birth to 

worlds of seeds 

tumbling like time

crashing through the river beds

into oceans I have wept

the places that change you-

memory is a canticle

informing the present with its solemn grace and cadence 

Like Lot’s 

anonymous wife, 

whose passion lay behind her,

we look back through the caul of the ever-

present consequential 

thrum of traffic and dialog.   

needs and must be. 

appointments with no consequence. 

No resonance. 

we drink from this the chalice of rotting leaves. 

makes good compost you say

always thinking of the garden

a thinning stand of trees 

a fire in the distance 

you can smell the smoke from the fire place 

where someone has bought expensive wood from the stop and shop.

I want to go there again. 

Like Lots nameless wife I am powerless 

I look back 

and am 

frozen in place.  

There is no forward. 

Cursed by a tide of unreasonable expectation and given no carriage out

I want to go there again 

To drink longingly from the river of Pieria.