I’M GOING TO BEGIN COURTING THE ROSEBUSHES

-with lines from Matthew Dickman’s “The World is Too Huge to Grasp” 

 

I’m going to walk out

into the woods and begin courting

the rosebushes.  I’m going to walk

into the haze of a mid-summer’s evening

where veils of sunlight drape like sorrow

over the heads of trees.

 

I’m going to walk out

into the shadows that reach

across the path to the crooked creek

where water, like a bridal train, sweeps

down the aisle, pulling partnered pairs

of witless ducks along.  I’m going

 

to walk along the path under

the restless rustle of leaves, those ruffled

petticoats, and the haunt

of the whip-poor-whil.  I’m going to walk

like this until I smell something sweet

and simple as a folk song.

 

I’m going to stop under a swelling

sky and the sparkle of Saturn’s solitaire.

I’m going to walk into the woods

where the twigs snap underfoot.

If I forget thee, O Jerusalem.

I’m going to stop before the altar

 

of the pasture rose.  With my right hand,

I’m going to break off a clutch

of five-petal roses and fix them in my hair. 

I’m going to stand on tip-toes, eyes closed,

and breathe in the bloom of the rosebush,

                       as if reaching for your kiss.

 

 

Small and Gilded Life

In the woods by my house,
someone has chosen
a tree–small, slanted, somewhat
scraggly, from a stand
of strong and stately pines.

They have begilded
this tree with silver
and gold balls, coronated
it with a gold star.
And the snow has tinseled
its branches.

When I round the path,
carrying my own burdens,
I see it there, arms heavy
from the weight
of ornaments and snow.

My breath catches
against the cold air, as if
on a nail. I stop and wonder–
at this tree, at this snow,
at this neighbor
who did the choosing, at my
one small and gilded life.

Awaiting Winter

From the cabin
in the waiting woods,
smoke weaves
like white weft
through the dark warp
of winter trees, winding
to the weighted sky.
White on white.