OPTIONAL POETRY

We lost the trail momentarily,
it sunk into the spongy forest floor

and opportunity arose between
the wide-spaced trees, each gap

an alluring possibility.
Silence settled down,

protected from shearing winds
by a sheer rock face,

only small vibrations,
the distant clip clip of a carabiner,

hinted at the climbers advancing
insect-like up the  wall.

We went up, found our path
beyond a slew of boulders

and then, of course,
saw the simpler way there;

I was distracted by envy,
by the vertical nature

of those on belay,
their higher climb

presenting greater difficulty,
opening up for a faster,

farther fall,
but giving a more perfect solution

to this enduring desire: To ascend,
no matter the cost. To rise above all.

A line of demarkation
where the sun cleared the ridge,

the rest of the gardens in blue
shade, iced over.  To start

we took down birdhouses stuck
on high stilts, two had peat bricks,

one studded with cold pebbly eggs,
one with a petrified bird, hatching

only half the battle–
The compost frozen solid,

we broke it up with garden forks,
lifted, threw all piles together

to prolong its warm center,
to keep it going longer,

decomposition still a marker of life
and how it finds a way, or doesn’t.

Deep in thought I missed the exit.
The hatchback in front of me

almost did the same.
What a night, with its

unreasonable coldness,
reunion dinners,

and unplanned diversions
through childhood towns.

Once I saw the church I knew
exactly where I was: Still lost,

just no longer in the temporal sense—
I mean yes, a course can be corrected,

but home—
The point is, it isn’t entirely a place,

and a longer drive just takes more
time, is more befitting for

a means without an end.

Upstream, they’ve built gardens
out of marshland,

plots of leeks patrolled
by bitterns, the water

plate-glass flat, growing
brackish in summer,

précis: the color of
indifference.

In town, day-drinkers float
in a sea of wicker

and ashtrays and flat-faced
dogs caught up in their leads.

Beyond the quai
the church bells toll time,

here, another passing hour
is only another train

that’s gone.
Somewhere farther

up North, the river
dumps out, in memory,

the coast was always cold.
Even on a sunny day

I never could see
England,

just odd anglers
and birds,

with wingspans wide
as lonely hours.

I could go or I could
stay or stay for now
and later, go– these
are the dangerous
hours, they curl in
like something clipped
from its life-source,
dead leaves, finger
-nails– time seems
to shorten and encircle
but I wouldn’t quite
say trap– it’s only
a cage if I want to go
out, which I might,
but maybe not just yet.

It seems unfair
to be tasked with motion

when all of nature
is still and frozen–

the first true frost puts
pallor on the cedar,

slips a chill past
the window,

blatant warnings
I would gladly head

if only I could,
instead of turning out

into darkness
ghosted by ice

to go someplace
I don’t want to be.

This time of year here
my dreams turn to impossible

mountains under their soft
coatings, meters of snow

making unreachable hidden
places, everything is coming

in now so I am going out,
drawn into the thinning woods

at receding hours to run
a trail cloudy with mud,

until my lungs seize up
and my skin turns

red from iced rain, I see
no one else, not even birds

are out, just me and the visible
exhalations of breath,

proof of life hanging over
these modest hills.

A routine reversal,
hard rain at three last night,

then blackout silence
with its own brand of guile–

a blend of impatience and dread,
both long disassociated

from anything tangible, also
hope and its dampener,

prior observation. It seems
impossible, the stillness

of the night, and what propels
me towards the kitchen

in search of a glass is a thirst
for motion, and not for water.

Last night,
the moon, over the lake–

we slammed on our brakes,
caught our breath,

allowed it to swallow us.
The storms have passed,

with light acting strangely
after sustained destruction,

its opacity failing to soften
the stark delineations

of broken limbs.
Their cut-back reach

leaves more space to fill;
a sly fog condenses

on the forest floor,
rises up to windows

and doors, sounding out
the double panes;

when I woke this house
was afloat in it,

pure light, unending
and of unclear

provenance, the kind
of light found only

on other sides, after
coming throughs,

too bright to look
at, too soon

to think comfort,
but blank and wondrous

before the morning
gives way to thought.